


Ride This Feeling (As Far as it Goes)

by gallantrejoinder



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: (It's mostly pretty mild though; just internalised), (To a point I mean - they're gay now.), Canon Compliant, Domestic Violence, F/F, Femslash, Gay healing, Historical Cameos, Lydia discovers lesbianism!, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, abuse recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-10-24 23:42:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: Lydia Bennet is no stranger to scandal, but when her husband abandons her, the consequences are too great to bear alone.Enter her sister, Elizabeth, and her brother-in-law, Darcy. While hiding away from the rest of the world at Pemberly, Lydia Bennet begins to rediscover who she was before Mr. Wickham stole everything from her.And then there's Mr. Darcy's sister, Georgiana, as beautiful as she is shy, and everything Lydia is not. But Lydia's starting to want to know her better ...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I KNOW, I KNOW. I have two other unfinished fics to work on. I'M SO SORRY.

Lydia Bennet is no stranger to scandal, but it is only now that she is older that she realises the consequences of scandal and rumour are deep and cutting for a woman alone in the world.

She had never intended to leave her husband. Not when he began to hit her. Not when he began to despise her. Not when he began to tell her, repeatedly, that he would have been better off never having married her. Whatever else Lydia may be, she knows it is the duty of a wife to remain with her husband – after all, she had been dreaming of life as a wife for years prior to her becoming one.

It therefore comes as a surprise when he leaves her, instead.

It is a sudden event. She awakens one morning in their dingy London apartments to discover a hastily scrawled note explaining that he has quit England for the continent, and, bluntly, does not expect to return. Nor does he expect her to follow. It is unsigned, but unmistakeably his hand.

If Lydia had awoken to such a note three years prior, she might have stamped her feet and wailed, but at nineteen years old and well into marriage with a man like Wickham, she simply lets the note float to the ground and stares, unseeing, into the distance – as if in a dream. Stupidly, the only thing she can think of consciously is the realisation that she has never been on her own before.

Several hours pass before she can shake off her reverie, and sit down at a writing desk to begin composing the humiliating letters she must send out to her family before the month is up and she will be forced to quit their – _her_ rented lodgings. She writes slowly, never having developed the talent for letter-writing in the way of her oldest sister, and is exhausted by the time she is finished and the early London evening is closing in around her.

She composes a letter for her mother and father, at home in Longbourn with Mary. She almost feels as if she would rather be on the streets than face the disappointment in her father’s eyes, or the cold indifference of her sister, or the hysterical screaming of her mother. But Kitty is currently on her bridal tour with her new husband somewhere in Scotland, so there is no use in writing to her. She writes with reluctance to Jane, her ever-dutiful older sister, and Jane’s husband Mr. Bingley. Lydia remembers how Mr. Bingley used to throw such marvellous balls at Netherfield, and for a moment, something terrible and aching wells up inside her with such ferocity that she must lay down her quill to cover her mouth, lest it all come spilling out in a frenzy.

Shaking off such melancholy – it has never suited her – she hesitates before beginning her final letter. But she must leave soon, most cannot afford to be proud – she must reach out wherever she can –

So she writes to Lizzie, too, and her husband Mr. Darcy. And that is that.

She posts the letters the following morning, after a night of restlessness that sees her eyes ringed with blue by the time the sun rises. Then, she resigns herself to wait.

 

~

 

Letters to Pemberly are common and unremarkable enough that Lizzie rarely feels the need to reach out, unprompted, to her friends in discovery of their wellbeing. Yet something in her stills when she sees the messily scrawled note from London in her small pile of letters one afternoon in May.

She reaches out carefully to pluck it from the pile, worry growing inside her as her suspicions are confirmed: the note is from Lydia, who rarely writes if she can help it. Opening it and beginning to read, her entire countenance crumples.

 

_Dearest Lizzie,_

_I am not sure where to begin. Wickham has left London – indeed, he has left the country. I awoke this morning to discover his letter of farewell. I do not know where he has gone except that it is very far away, somewhere on the continent. I have written to mother and father, and Jane, but I am not sure what I shall do by the month’s end without help. We are only renting lodgings and I have not the means to secure it any longer than that. I must leave, but I have nowhere yet to go to. Will you help me?_

_With fondest regards and haste,_

_Lydia_.

 

For a moment, Lizzie is so blinded by rage that she cannot move – can only think of striking Mr. Wickham across his face – can only think back to that moment, all those years ago, when she chose not to disclose his past to her acquaintances despite all her instincts –

And then tears spring to her eyes, and she begins to weep.

Her crying does not last long, because Lizzie has never been the sort of woman to allow herself to be carried away by emotion in quite the way of her two youngest sisters. But it is enough that when she enters her husband’s study without knocking, that he stands immediately and crosses to her, taking her in his arms without another word.

“What has happened? Is it Charlotte?” His face is white with anxiety, and Lizzie imagines that she is similarly pink with crying.

“No, no, she is well,” she replies hastily. Indeed, their daughter is becoming more precocious every day. “I only wish I could say the same of – my sister.”

“Jane?” His brow furrows with confusion.

Lizzie shakes her head, and bites her lip with reluctance for what she must inform him of, in no prolonged manner. She manoeuvres herself and her husband towards a set of fine chairs, before finally answering him once they are both seated.

“I pray you will not be angry with her, but – Lydia has just written to me informing me that her husband has abandoned her, alone in London. That he has in fact quit the country, with no intention to return, and left Lydia with no means of living.”

Lizzie watches Darcy’s face darken, knowing that though he will not show the full extent of his anger, the news must nevertheless be devastating to him. As it is to her – but for different reasons entirely. Finally, he swallows.

“I wonder how he expects to live without annual income he was promised to keep his wife,” he says, fury underlying his words.

“It matters little to me how he lives,” Lizzie says, allowing her hatred for the odious man to infuse her tone. “But Lydia – you know how she is. It is bad enough for a woman to be on her own, let alone one as silly as her. To think even now, that she has no family, no friend in London to care for her –” Lizzie’s voice cracks on the final syllable, and, seemingly unable to stop himself, Fitzwilliam moves to her hand, kneeling before her with fervour.

“I cannot think that she is alone with such a sister to care for her. Perhaps, if we were to –”

The door to the study opens suddenly, and Georgiana sweeps in with great excitement.

“Brother! I have the grandest new music for the piano, and you promised you –” Georgiana stops, wide-eyed, at the sight of her brother kneeling before his wife. She blushes pink, and begins to stutter out an apology, while Fitzwilliam rises.

Lizzie reflects that Georgiana’s shyness still does not seem to have abated around her, despite the past three years of their acquaintance and her evident ease Georgiana maintains around her brother. It reminds her a little of Jane.

“My apologies, Georgiana,” Fitzwilliam says, in the gentle voice he only uses for his sister, his wife, and his daughter. “Mrs. Darcy and I were just discussing – an important family matter.”

“A family matter?” Georgiana repeats, looking alarmed. “One that has caused you both such alarm? What is it?”

Fitzwilliam hesitates, glancing at Lizzie, who knows as well as her husband why it might be best to keep this news from Georgiana.

“It is … a delicate matter,” Fitzwilliam says, and Lizzie nearly sighs at his poor attempt to cover the truth.

“I am not a child anymore, brother,” Georgiana replies, though her cheeks are still red and her words full of hesitation. “I am twenty years old. You need not keep secrets from me.”

Fitzwilliam flounders, clearly torn between his desire to reassure his sister of his respect for her and his desire to protect her from any and all that might harm her. Lizzie takes pity on him, standing and moving closer to Georgiana, who looks down at the carpet in embarrassment at being noticed by her sister-in-law.

“Your brother is not trying to lie to you, Georgiana,” Lizzie says, glancing at Fitzwilliam. “It is only that this matter concerns someone we all know to have hurt you in the past.”

At that, Georgiana does look up, a terrible sort of light dawning in her expression. “Oh,” she says softly.

“Yes,” Lizzie says, equally as soft.

But there is pride in Georgiana’s chin as she lifts her head, something that reminds Lizzie of her husband.

“If it concerns … our family, I ought to hear it,” Georgiana says, voice only shaking a little.

Lizzie turns to see the same affection for the girl on Mr. Darcy’s face that she too is feeling.

“Are you sure?” he asks, gently.

Georgiana nods, and Lizzie repeats the motion when his gaze lands on her for permission to speak of what has happened.

“You may recall that some years ago – before Mrs. Darcy and I were married – I had to intervene in an affair regarding one of her younger sisters,” Mr. Darcy begins.

Georgiana frowns. “Yes, but you never explained all the particulars of it to me.”

“That is because … it involved Mr. Wickham.”

Georgiana’s countenance transforms, becoming like glass, thin and fragile. But she nods for him to continue.

“Mr. Wickham had convinced young Lydia Bennet to elope with him, but did not seem as if he intended to follow through or indeed prevent the scandal from reaching the young Miss Bennet’s acquaintances. To save their family from disgrace, I paid off his debts and gave him a small annual income to prevent his abandoning her.”

At these words, Lizzie glances down, ashamed. Her eyes fall on Georgiana’s knuckles, white and peaked like small hills on her thin hands.

“However … Mrs. Darcy has just received word that Mr. Wickham has done just that. He has left England, never to return. His wife, Lydia … is now quite alone, and in need of help.”

It is all Lizzie can do not to reach out and take her husband’s hand, in echo of his attempt to comfort her. She knows that revealing the truth to Georgiana must bring him great pain.

As for the young Miss Darcy, she is silent for a moment more, before responding.

“I see,” she says, quietly. Lizzie’s heart aches for her with a ferocity that is no less than for one of her own sisters.

“Mrs. Darcy and I were just discussing what to do with regards to this matter,” Mr. Darcy finishes.

“You must bring her here,” Georgiana says, without hesitation.

Lizzie blinks.

“Pardon?” she says, alarmed.

“You must bring her here,” Georgiana repeats, with resolve. “She cannot stay in London a moment longer. If that – if that man abandoned her, you must go and fetch her at _once_ brother.”

Mr. Darcy seems lost for words.

“Georgiana, what can have come over you to have such a conviction?” Lizzie says, surprised. True, it might be best for Lydia to avoid their parents for some time, but …

Georgiana does pause now, lowering her eyes once more to the floor.

“I … I nearly made the mistake Lydia has evidently made, when I was younger. The very same one. I think perhaps my brother told you of it. And I should like to think that if I had, and that man had left me alone without anyone to care for me … I should like to think that someone would come for me, and keep me safe from the condemnation and judgement of the wider world, and be a friend to me.”

Lizzie looks to Mr. Darcy once more, and his expression is filled with pride, and not a little bit of love, too. His eyes meet hers, and she is quick to answer them.

“That is a very kind way to think, Georgiana,” Lizzie says. “It does you credit.”

“Then I shall go at once,” Mr. Darcy says.

Both Lizzie and Georgiana are this time shocked.

“She cannot be left alone a minute longer. I will go directly to London in the morning and bring her back to Pemberly.”

Mr Darcy’s resolve stirs something inside Lizzie that is more than gratitude, and she suddenly wishes that Georgiana were not present, despite herself.

“Thank you, my love,” she says softly, instead.

Georgiana wisely takes this as a cue to leave, or perhaps she cannot stand to be in the presence of her brother any longer when the topic of her near-ruin still hangs in the air. In either case, she leaves, quickly, without another word. As the door closes behind her, Lizzie steps in close to Fitzwilliam and wraps her arms about him, holding her face against his chest.

“I know how difficult this must be for you,” she whispers, against his warmth.

“It can be no less difficult for you, Lizzie,” he replies, stroking her back slowly as they both contemplate the complications the future will hold.


	2. Chapter 2

Of all the rescuers Lydia might have hoped for, she never expected to see Mr. Darcy.

But then she cannot imagine who else might have come. After all, he has intervened in her affairs before, in the matter of her marriage in the first place. Remembering that, she feels flushed with guilt – it was all for naught.

After greeting her with the stiff formality she knows he is infamous for, Mr. Darcy quickly directs the packing-up of her possessions, which are few, and the settling of her debts, which are many. Lydia lets it happen with a dazed and distracted air, not even feeling the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

The ride back to Pemberly is silent. Mr. Darcy has never much been one for stimulating conversation, rude and snobbish as he is. Lydia cannot comprehend how her sister chose to marry him, but that line of thought leads her to think on her own shambolic marriage, so she chooses to be charitable and not dwell on it. Mary might even be proud of her for that.

After many hours on poor roads, muddied by the Spring rains, Pemberly finally appears from behind a line of trees with a suddenness that surprises her. She leans out the window to look at it, never having seen Lizzie’s new home during her marriage. She thinks that perhaps Lizzie did not like Mr. Wickham after a fashion, and would not allow it. Lydia really does hate it when her older sisters are right. Especially in the circumstances.

Pemberly is as grand as anything Lydia has imagined it to be, with such vastness both in the home itself and the surrounding lands that some long-buried part of her wants to pout that Lizzie should be mistress of it all. Within minutes, the home stands before her, impossibly even _more_ imposing than it had been when she first glanced it through the trees. And at the door, awaiting her arrival with a solemn look on her face, is Lizzie herself.

The Lydia of three years ago, when alighting from the carriage to greet her sister, might have turned up her nose and asked if Lizzie intended to gloat, before storming inside. But Lydia is not who she was three years ago, and her heart merely sinks at Lizzie’s expression, without rising to meet it.

“Hello, my dear sister,” she says, awkwardly, instead. It is all that she can force herself to speak without trembling.

Lizzie bites her lip for a moment, before stepping forward and wrapping her arms around Lydia with a ferocity that leaves her taken aback.

“Oh, Lydia,” Lizzie sighs. And that first comfort is what Lydia needs to begin weeping for the first time, her heart heavy with all that she has lost, only to find herself once more amongst her family.

 

~

 

Georgiana has never had a sister, only an older brother more like a father to her than anything else. Elizabeth is the closest thing that Georgiana can think of to a female sibling, but Lizzie is a little older than herself, and thus necessarily of a different constitution, no matter how well they get along in other respects. It is therefore purely curiosity which drives Georgiana to wait by the window for the arrival of Mrs. Wick – of Miss Ben – of _Lydia_.

She thinks, under the circumstances, she might be forgiven for calling this near-stranger by her Christian name, at least in the privacy of her own thoughts. She is uncertain to which name her brother will defer, but she will follow his lead when he comes to it soon enough.

Georgiana watches silently by the window as Elizabeth takes her sister into her arms and holds her, letting the girl rest her head on Elizabeth’s shoulder with grace and love. Georgiana has heard it said that there is nothing like both the love and hatred between sisters, and knows for certain that she is witnessing that love now. It makes her uncomfortable to be privy to such an intimate display – her brother has never been the sort of person to bestow kisses and embraces freely, in the way of the Bennet family – and so she steps back from the window, feeling guilty.

Her heart is pounding – with what, she cannot name. The excitement of having a guest at Pemberly is tempered by the terrible circumstances of her arrival. Beyond that, Georgiana is well aware that Lydia’s stay must be kept secret for as long as possible, lest their neighbours should hear of the scandal.

Georgiana sits by a little sewing table just momentarily, to gather her nerves.

Lydia had looked so _sombre_ , exiting the carriage, nothing at all like Elizabeth had described her as, the once or twice that her sister had come up in conversation before. Lydia Bennet, Georgiana had been given to understand, was a vivacious and somewhat thoughtless girl who nonetheless enlivened every gathering to which she was invited. The girl who has just arrived at Pemberly, crying quietly against her sister’s shoulder, is nothing like that.

Still, there is something in Lydia’s air that captures Georgiana’s attention, prompting her even now to rise from the table and go back to the window – though she refrains. Lydia is a little like Elizabeth in looks, but her hair is of a lighter shade, and her nose a little longer. Her mouth is wide, the sort of mouth that is used to smiling. And she is a little shorter and plumper that Elizabeth, too, and not at all similar to Georgiana’s willowy, awkward figure. Georgiana frowns, chastising herself silently for thinking too long on the looks of another woman – envy is unbecoming of a lady.

She is just resolving to go and practice her harp-playing, and think no longer on the subject of the youngest Bennet sister, when the door to the room opens, and her brother enters. She wishes to smile and welcome him home, but his expression is foreboding, and so she remains silent, waiting for him to speak.

“Mrs. Wickham has arrived,” he announces, shortly, and Georgiana flinches.

Her brother looks sorry, but before he can offer any apology, Georgiana answers him.

“I saw from the window,” she says, gravely. “I hope – I hope she is not too tired from the journey.”

“Not from the journey, perhaps,” he murmurs.

“She is with Elizabeth, then?”

“Yes, and she will soon meet Charlotte. But she will be joining us for supper tonight.”

Georgiana nods. “I shall be … glad, to see her then.” The words are true, despite her stumbling over them. She will indeed be glad to discover a friend her own age, despite the circumstances under which they have come together.

 

~

 

Lydia has never quite understood how to relate to small children, never having had any younger siblings herself, but Charlotte is happy enough to babble to Lizzie and tug on her skirts, shyly glancing at Lydia every so often but never coming too close. Lydia briefly entertains the thought that even the child can sense she is tainted, but dismisses it, concluding it is more likely that her miserable expression and complete unfamiliarity with her niece is responsible. Lizzie looks apologetic, and makes some motions to assure Lydia that she is not unwanted, but Lydia only gives a glum-looking smile to assuage her fears.

Charlotte’s playroom is enormous – bigger than the room Lydia shared with Kitty at Longbourn – but then, everything at Pemberly is much grander than Lydia was ever capable of imagining it being. She thinks if her husband had managed to commit to his commission in the north, they might have had some fine things themselves, eventually. Circumstances being what they were, however, he lasted not six months to the north before returning to London.

“Well,” Lizzie says, as they leave Charlotte with her nursemaid, “You have now acquainted yourself, or re-acquainted yourself, with nearly every member of the family.”

“Whom did I miss?” Lydia inquires, confused.

“Mr. Darcy’s sister, Miss Georgiana Darcy. She is practising her music, probably, but you shall be introduced at supper. She is a very accomplished young lady.”

“Oh,” Lydia says, unable to think of anything to say.

Lizzie frowns, taking her arm as she leads Lydia to her rooms, which should by now be ready for her.

“Come now, nothing to say to that? The Lydia with whom I spent so many happy years at Longbourn would say something like ‘who gives a fig for accomplishments!’ And insist upon leaving to try some new hair-style or bonnet. Are you so much changed, my sister?” Lizzie’s voice betrays her concern.

Lydia is unsure how to respond, but shakes her head slowly. “I am – I am simply tired from the journey,” she says, eventually. “If I might rest a little …”

“Of course,” Lizzie says, sounding relieved. “I shall take you to your rooms immediately. Never fear that you will be forced to endure mindless conversation in this household.” She smiles at her joke, and Lydia tries to return it – but struggles all the same.

At the door to her rooms, Lizzie stops to take Lydia’s other arm.

“Now, supper will be served soon, so try to rest up as much as you can before then. We can always send something up should you remain ill,” she says, looking as much Lydia’s older sister as she always has.

“I shall bear it in mind,” Lydia replies, trying not to shrink back from her sister’s touch, feeling undeserving of it and afraid, all at once, as Lizzie’s hands grip her arms the way Wickham does, when he is becoming angry with her. Lydia knows that Lizzie is not angry, or at least will not hit her, but it unsettles her all the same to see Lizzie with a similar posture.

Inside, her rooms are, once more, enormous and richly decorated. Lydia sits down on the bed with a _thump_ , sinking into the layers of down so deeply that she briefly wonders how she will ever stand up again. Then again, she doesn’t feel particularly inclined to. She lies down flat instead, letting her legs hang over the edge, slippers swinging from her toes. She stares blankly at the ceiling and wonders how it is that the first of the Bennet sisters to marry has now become the only Bennet sister to have been abandoned.

She wonders how her mother will react to the news. Mrs. Bennet and she have always been alike in temperament – it is why they have always gotten along so well. But Lydia feels a dreadful certainty that her mother will never understand why Mr. Wickham left. Mrs. Bennet was lucky enough to marry a man who, despite his lackadaisical attitude towards raising his children, would never abandon his family. No matter how much they disagreed with one another, whether in attitude, in temperament, or in material things. Her father would never give up on his family.

… Would he?

Now that her mind has turned to her father, Lydia realises that these events must disgrace him deeply. To be sure, they did when she married Mr. Wickham. She had not cared for scandal at the time, too dizzy with pride at having been the first, but now – now it is all she can think of, how disappointed her father will be in her. How resigned, to having now _two_ daughters to worry about providing for once again: herself and Mary, who will probably never marry unless another Mr. Collins exists somewhere in the world, which Lydia sincerely hopes is not the case, for the sake of her family’s sanity.

Jane will be kind, as always. She will probably think that Lydia’s husband must have been tricked into going, but Lydia has always liked to think of herself as a more experienced woman than her oldest sister, and now she knows it to be true. Jane will not understand that a man capable of being as charming and courteous as Mr. Wickham can be the same man who would strike his own wife, and blame her for all his misfortunes.

Then again, perhaps Lydia _is_ responsible, in some way at least, for his leaving her.

She turns over, onto her side, and curls up as her thoughts begin to race.

It is true – she was too free with their money, when they first wed. She had been giddy with the excitement of being a new bride at the time, flushed with pride and happiness at having been the first of her sisters, for once in her life, to have achieved so much. She had been too flighty, not knowing how not to flirt with the officers, though she was now a married woman. Wickham had not liked that, but had never liked her to be so clingy either. She could not please him. He could never be made as happy as on that first night, the night of their elopement, when her heart had been empty of all but senseless joy, unsustainable freedom.

A knock startles her, and she sits up, heart pounding.

The door opens, and a maid steps inside, quietly closing it behind her.

“Good evening, milady. I am come to inform you that supper will be served presently, and to ask whether you will need any assistance dressing.”

Lydia blinks, feeling completely out of place.

“Oh – that will – not be necessary, thank you,” she replies, awkwardly.

The maid glances at Lydia’s dress and purses her lips, but nods all the same, and leaves. Lydia flushes, knowing she is not dressed properly yet. She does know _how_ to dress, however, and therefore is quite certain she does not need to be so looked down upon. Frowning, she sets herself to the task of dressing quickly.

By the time the task is done, Lydia has begun to feel somehow even more foolish and gloomy than before. In her dinner dress, with her hair immaculate and her face and hands clean, she could almost pass for a lady – but a wife abandoned by her husband can be no such thing, she is sure of it.

She is led down to dinner by a servant, and enters a grand hallway holding her sister and her brother-in-law by a set of doors, presumably leading into the dining room. It takes her a moment to discover that a third figure is present, small and unassuming as it is – this must be Mr. Darcy’s younger sister, Miss Georgiana, standing by him with the quiet grace of a real lady.

“Mrs – Miss –” Mr. Darcy is attempting to greet her, but cannot seem to decide upon a term of greeting. Lydia’s stomach sinks. Mr. Darcy is quite frozen, seemingly having forgotten to bow – Lydia cannot blame him, as she has entirely forgotten how to curtsy in her wretchedness.

“Lydia,” Lizzie says, foregoing decorum under the present circumstances. She smiles, walking forward to greet Lydia. Lydia attempts once more to smile in return, knowing that the effort must contort her face horrendously.

“Come now,” Lizzie says, taking her arm, “I must introduce you to the final member of the household.”

She walks Lydia forward, and gestures to the slight figure still half-hidden behind Mr. Darcy’s imposing form.

“This is Miss Georgiana Darcy, Lydia.”

Finally the figure steps out, shyly, to reveal a young woman about her own age, if Lydia were to guess. The girl – Miss Darcy – curtsies politely, startling Lydia into doing the same.

When Lydia raises her eyes, meeting Miss Darcy’s at the same moment, her stomach makes some motion she cannot divine the reason for.

Miss Darcy is very small indeed, shorter than Lydia and much slimmer besides. Her hair is a much lighter shade than her brother’s, though still brown, and her complexion is fairer than Lydia’s own. And her eyes –

Well, her eyes are brown. Lydia decides not to think on them overmuch. She can recognise the signs of envy in herself, despite what others may think. She had been envious of many young girls at Longbourn, but is older now, and more inclined to ignore the pangs of it, especially since flaunting her own charms has led to this disaster in the first place.

“Good evening,” Miss Darcy says awkwardly, stopping suddenly before saying Lydia’s name. Lydia feels irrationally annoyed by it.

“Good evening, Miss Darcy,” she replies quietly. Miss Darcy simply looks upon her with strangely wide eyes.

“Shall we go in?” Lizzie interjects, politely, reminding them that they are there to take nourishment.

Miss Darcy starts, but Lydia simply nods her agreement with her sister’s proposal. They enter the room in a fine procession, Lydia aware throughout the proceedings that she is perhaps less than worthy of sitting in such a fine house, with such elegant people – even her sister, who has taken to her marriage and the life it affords her with considerable grace. Lydia is not sure how it came to be, how her sister became so refined, so genteel, while Lydia has only fallen further and further with the assistance of her husband into wretchedness and misery. Lydia never used to care for fine manners, finding them frightfully dull and utterly false, but perhaps it is not the manners that concern her – perhaps it is simply that Lizzie chose well, and is loved and taken care of by a man of fine esteem, while Lydia’s husband –

Lydia’s husband is not here.

Over dinner, the conversation is subdued. Despite Lizzie’s efforts to inject liveliness into the conversation, Mr. Darcy remains stiff and nearly silent. His sister is no better, though there is something sweeter and altogether more innocent in her air than her brother’s, something which suggests her silence is one of mortification rather than snobbery. Lydia can hardly begrudge her that, as she too is unable to bring herself to converse with any energy, exhausted and lonely as she feels. She resigns herself to knowing that Miss Darcy’s silence is better served to accentuate her gentle beauty, however, while Lydia’s only marks her uncommon ability to prettify herself with words and mindless chatter, rather than any natural composure of features.

Still, it is not the worst meal she has attended. Meals with her husband used to end with lascivious insinuations and occasionally a drunken rage. This is much more bearable, Lydia thinks, allowing her gaze to linger on the silent occupant across the table, whose two short words towards her earlier are perhaps the kindest ones Lydia will be able to accept from new acquaintances from now on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for slow updates. Real life kicked me in the face, went through my pockets, and stole my last remaining shreds of dignity and motivation.


	3. Chapter 3

Georgiana sees little of their guest over the next few weeks.

She spends as much time as she usually does with Elizabeth and Charlotte, of course, but the subject of Lydia’s stay at Pemberly is never brokered by Elizabeth herself – so Georgiana does not dare either. Her brother leaves for some business in London and returns again, bringing with him observations of dry wit and barely-disguised annoyance with the wider world. It makes her smile, as usual.

Though his description of a particularly strange hairstyle gaining popularity amongst London high society ladies is perhaps more intriguing than he had intended it to be, since it awakens a familiar feeling in Georgiana’s heart that she has become used to tamping down over the years. The desire to _leave_.

Not leave forever, of course. Simply – for a little while. To see strange sights, unfamiliar to her eyes. To become more worldly, and experienced in the ways of people. She knows why her brother keeps her at Pemberly, and most of the time, does not begrudge him this protection. It is safe at Pemberly. She need never worry about a single thing in the place she has always called her home.

Wistful longing, however, is common amongst young ladies her age, she has been told. And so she cannot help but wish, just briefly, that she could see London – even dress like the ladies her brother finds so bafflingly fashionable.

“In a word, then, Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth says, laughing. “How would you describe the hair of these young ladies?”

He pauses to consider, looking slightly uncomfortable. Finally, he clears his throat and answers, awkwardly.

“… Tall.”

Elizabeth laughs even harder, and Georgiana can’t help but let out a giggle too. Perhaps they did look rather silly after all.

At that moment, the door opens unexpectedly. The four of them, including little Charlotte, are gathered in a sitting room awaiting supper presently, idling away the time by hearing the news from London from Mr. Darcy. The intrudor is Miss Lydia Bennet, which makes five. Silence suddenly pervades the room as, par for the course in their household, no one knows how to address Lydia or what to speak of in her presence. Georgiana sees the dull resignation to this fact settle in Lydia’s face, as it usually does.

The meal passes in much the same manner. Mr. Darcy makes feeble, fumbling attempts at conversation. Mrs. Darcy takes these attempts and turns them into something worth discussing. Georgiana makes meagre contributions where she can, and Lydia speaks even less. Somehow, they muddle through it all, and are relieved to be free of one another within the hour.

Georgiana knows that she ought to spend the rest of her evening reading, or sewing perhaps. It is what she usually does, before the light fades too much. She does not feel inclined to, however. She could practise her music, but …

Well, she is not feeling entirely inclined to do that either.

Instead, she sits before her toilet, taking pins from her hair in order to braid it for the night, feeling restless. She is halfway down her tresses, three locks of hair pulled loosely in her fingers, when she has an idea.

It cannot be too difficult, surely, to attempt to build her hair up in the way her brother had described. Georgiana has always been blessed with a little curl to her hair, which should make the task easier. Determinedly, she pulls her tresses out of their braid, and sets her curling papers aside for the time being. She shall have a task to attend to this evening after all.

 

~

 

Lydia’s first few weeks at Pemberly are spent in a dreamlike daze. She cannot quite familiarise herself with the layout of the building proper, and becomes hopelessly lost on more than one occasion. It makes her feel, rather miserably, that she will never have any chance at calling it home.

She has hardly anywhere else to go, at any rate. Kitty is of course still travelling, and unable to attend to her sister. Jane, quick to respond to Lizzie’s letter indicating Lydia’s safety, has extended a willingness to take her in, but Lydia has already been through the awful process of introducing herself to the annoyingly happy household of a well-married sister, and does not wish to do so again unless is it quite necessary. More than anything she wishes she could go home, to Longbourn. But –

Well, the look on Lizzie’s face when Lydia had enquired as to their parents’ response to her letter had told her all she needed to know. Perhaps one day her mother will forgive her, and her father not be ashamed. It will be some time before that event comes to pass, however, and Lydia has no doubt that Mary will absolutely always hold herself above her in any case.

Her days at Pemberly, though, remain endless in the meantime.

She has never been one to stay indoors and sew or read all the livelong day. She has always preferred balls, gossip, trips into town – interaction, in short. As it is, of course, there are no balls being thrown at Pemberly. Mr. Darcy’s disinclination towards sociability ensures that, even if the scandal of her presence being known to the neighbourhood would not. She has no inclination towards children, though little Charlotte is warming up to her, so she passes precious little time caring for her niece. It makes something in her heart twist uncomfortably to be with the child for too long. She does not know why one was never granted to her, and thinks, late at night, with the fire burning low and her body ensconced in mountains of bedsheets, that perhaps it is her fault. Something in her nature, maybe – a natural repulsion towards motherhood and responsibility revealing itself in her barrenness. If Lydia did not know so well how Mr. Wickham hated children, she would probably think his violence was the result of disappointment in her failure to fulfil that particular wifely duty.

But he did hate children, and he beat her anyway. So that cannot be the reason.

Lydia rolls over in her bed, sleepless. She cannot puzzle it out, the flaw in her that made her fail as a wife. After careful examination over the past few weeks, she has come up with many – many indeed, that would drive a man to violence. It cannot be so … so mundane, though, can it? It must have been something, something specific, which led to his abandonment. She resolves to think on it further, wondering idly whether Mary would be proud of her for taking so well to self-examination.

Tomorrow she will find some useful activity to do, she is sure of it. Some way to make her time at Pemberly worthwhile, for herself, and for her sister.

For now, however, she rises from the bed and dons a dressing gown to walk the halls as sleep eludes her. If Pemberly is good for one thing, it is its uncanny ability to make Lydia get lost in it.

 

~

 

Unfortunately, after an hour of pulling, prodding, combing, and coaxing, Georgiana’s hair, rather than looking dignified and tall, looks absolutely frightful. She has lost count of the number of pins inside the mess on top of her head, and looks into the mirror with despair. What she sees is enough to have her want to lay her head down on the table and not look up again. Sighing, she decides that the time has come to accept her failure and give up on the whole venture.

Unfortunately, the very first pin come outs with such force that it skitters across the floor and under her door the second she tugs at it. Georgiana allows herself to let out an undignified huff of frustration before rising from her seat to go and fetch it.

To her surprise and embarrassment, however, when she opens the door –

Somebody is behind it.

 

~

 

Lydia can do little but blink in surprise when the door she has wandered past many times over the previous weeks opens to reveal Miss Darcy in her nightgown. As her startled gaze rises to Miss Darcy’s face, she feels her eyes involuntarily widen at the sight of the – _thing_ atop her head. It looks to be hair, but could as easily be a bird’s nest.

“Miss Darcy, what _have_ you done to your hair?!” Lydia blurts out.

A blush rises in Miss Darcy’s cheeks with more grace and elegance than Lydia has seen since – well, since the last time she was with Jane.

“I – I –” Miss Darcy stutters, before Lydia remembers herself.

“Oh, Lord. That was terribly rude, wasn’t it? You must think me absolutely _abominably_ ill-mannered,” Lydia exclaims.

“N- No,” Miss Darcy replies, quickly, self-consciously raising a hand to touch her hair. “I only – I wasn’t expecting someone to be outside the door, at this time of night.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” Lydia says, feeling a blush of her own. “I was only – I could not sleep.”

“Oh,” Miss Darcy says. “I see.”

Uncomfortable silence descends upon them both. Lydia is fixated on the way Miss Darcy’s eyelashes flutter a little in tandem with the light from her candle, for a moment, before thinking to fill the quietness.

“I must – apologise, for commenting on your hair. It was ill-done of me,” Lydia says, awkwardly prolonging their encounter.

“Oh, do not worry yourself over it,” Miss Darcy replies, looking embarrassed. “I know it looks atrocious. I was … I was trying to do something like the ladies in London are all doing, apparently, but I could not seem to grasp the method.”

“Oh, a London hair-style?” Lydia asks, her interest piqued. “I know all about them. There really were some absolutely appalling ones while I was – while I was in town.” Lydia’s stomach turns as she avoids mention of her husband. She hurries on to make her point. “I could show you, if you like. That way you won’t have to worry about it ending up like – ah, _this_ again.”

Lydia is near to cursing herself inwardly for making such a presumptuous offer, in such a subtly insulting manner, but to her surprise, Miss Darcy’s eyes are shining with hopefulness.

“Oh, would you really? I was so terribly confused about how to make it work. I would be very grateful to accept any help you could offer, Miss – ah, Mrs –”

“– You may call me Lydia,” Lydia interrupts, not wanting to hear her husband’s name. “I know that … circumstances being as they are … I have no name to call my own, it would seem.”

“Oh – it isn’t that,” Miss Darcy replies, but her mouth seems to stick on whatever she wants to say next.

Lydia clears her throat. “As it is, though – it is late. I am sure I could not satisfactorily attempt to teach you any London styles tonight. But perhaps … Are you in need of a lady’s maid to help you untangle what has already occurred?”

Miss Darcy ducks her head with an embarrassed, self-deprecating chuckle. “That would be more than acceptable, if you are in earnest.”

Lydia grins, for the first time in many weeks. “If we are to be friends, Miss Darcy, you will learn that I am rarely ever in anything but earnestness.”

“Then I must beg you to come in, Lydia,” Miss Darcy says, barely stumbling over her Christian name. It does something strange to Lydia’s heart to hear someone call her by it other than her sister or her family. There is an intimacy in the gesture that makes her feel … safe.

Lydia steps into Miss Darcy’s room, the young woman in question holding the door open for her while bending to pick something up off the floor. For a moment, Lydia is reminded of the bedroom she shared with Kitty as a girl, the late nights filled with gossip and laughter between sisters who delighted in their silliness. It makes her heart ache with some fierce feeling of loss, for a moment – but then she turns to Miss Darcy, still the shy keeper of a mop of terribly mistreated hair, and the lightness she had felt earlier in the doorway returns.

“Well, then,” Lydia begins. “I am afraid I must prompt you for a hairbrush and some combs to begin righting this mess.”

“Just over here,” Miss Darcy says, walking towards a little stool before a mirror at a dressing table. Lydia follows her over, and stands erect behind Miss Darcy as she sits. A hairbrush is handed to her, and Lydia surveys what work must be done for a moment, before she can begin.

She pulls what pins are visible from Miss Darcy’s hair as delicately as she can, placing them quietly on the dressing table in a neat row. Both of them are silent, too tired for conversation and, perhaps, aware of the strangeness of their intimacy in Miss Darcy’s bedroom, despite having rarely spoken before tonight. The candlelight gives a reddish sheen to Miss Darcy’s brown hair, but what Lydia cannot help but be entranced by is its softness. Though the pile atop her head had appeared severe when Lydia came in, Miss Darcy’s tresses are quick to fall back in line, cascading down her back, with a few pulls off the brush. Lydia does not think on how long she brushes for, knowing somewhere deep in her mind that it is surely longer than necessary – but she cannot help it. Miss Darcy’s hair is beautiful, and begging to be touched, and gathered in Lydia’s hands. It is as beautiful as any of her delicate features, now downturned in the candlelight, relaxed into an expression of quiet patience.

Miss Darcy looks up, into the mirror, and catches Lydia staring. It is then that Lydia realises she has stopped brushing, and is neglecting her purpose in entering the room entirely.

“I believe – that will do, Miss Darcy. If you are satisfied,” Lydia says, flushing, as if she has been caught at some flirtation.

“I am,” Miss Darcy says softly.

Lydia stares a moment longer, for some reason finding that she cannot think of what to say.

“Then – I will bid you good night,” she says, stumbling over the farewell. “And – I suppose I shall see you to-morrow night, again, for a second attempt?”

Miss Darcy smiles, looking excited. “Yes! Of course. I think you shall make a wonderful teacher.”

“You would be the first,” Lydia says, letting out an undignified snort. “Lord, you have no idea what it was like to be the youngest of five daughters. I could never do anything the others could not do better or had not done first. Until I got – married.”

Lydia’s heart sinks once more as Miss Darcy’s countenance contorts into something like mortification, reflecting her own.

“In – in any case, though, it is time to be abed, I think. Good-night, Miss Darcy,” Lydia hurries on, looking anywhere but at Miss Darcy’s face.

“Good-night, Lydia,” Miss Darcy replies, equally as embarrassed.

Lydia leaves the room quickly, shutting the door behind her as softly as she can manage while having picked up her candle once more to guide her way back to her room. As she walks, though, the heaviness that has settled in her these past weeks begins to lift, just a little. It is hard to remain so empty, so caught up in the netting of her own failures, when there is another girl to speak with. To laugh with. Lydia thinks of the way Miss Darcy’s hair curls around her ears, like tiny shells, and finds herself lost in the image until the very moment she returns to her room, crawls into her bed, and falls steadily into sleep.

 

~

 

Georgiana waits, after Lydia leaves, before forcing herself to braid her hair. It feels … freeing, to have it unbound, and brushed out by hands not her own. Looking at herself in the mirror, she can hardly recognise the delicate face surrounded by freely-flowing brown locks. It makes her feel strangely bold – makes her want to ask Lydia to come back every night to do this, to make her feel as she does in this moment.

But it would be senseless, to have her hair tangled in knots again in the morning, for the sake of a strange, wild feeling brought about by, of all the silly things, having her hair brushed. She braids it as she must, though perhaps a little more loosely than usual, and makes her way to bed, curling up with a shiver as the cool sheets touch her skin. Her last thoughts, before she loses herself to dreams, are of the way Lydia had looked at her in the mirror – the glinting in her eyes by the candlelight, hinting at something Georgiana cannot fathom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hair-brushing is gay now, I decided.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day passes in the same way as all the days before it, except that Lydia can think of little else but the happy distraction from her current state of boredom that will take place that night. Teaching another lady how to style her hair should not be so exciting, except that Lydia knows she is somewhat desperate for friendship at Pemberly. Having been surrounded by women all her life, most especially her sisters, Lydia has never yearned for the company of them with such ferocity before, even when she had been living in London with her husband. Living with him had rather reduced her worldview. She cannot recall ever having imagined that their circle of friends should include more than his own, sensing that such a suggestion would be unwelcome after he had become … truly hostile.

The point, however, is that when the time finally comes, Lydia does not hesitate to slip on a robe, pick up a candle, and make her way to Miss Darcy’s room as quickly as she can manage while still attempting to be silent in the empty house. Miss Darcy had not specified to come as late as the previous night, but she had not invited Lydia during the day either, so Lydia strikes a balance – coming an hour earlier than the previous evening’s venture.

She knocks, and the door is opened instantaneously, as if Miss Darcy had been waiting on the other side. Miss Darcy appears to be blushing with the suddenness of the door’s opening, but Lydia only smiles.

“I hope you have enough hair-pins, Miss Darcy,” she says, by way of greeting. “Though your natural curl should help.”

“Thank you for agreeing to help me,” Miss Darcy says, politely, stepping out of the way to let Lydia in.

“Oh, nonsense,” Lydia laughs. “I’ve been in need of a decent friend to laugh with of an evening. I can hardly go to Lizzie now she’s married, now, can I?”

“I suppose not,” Miss Darcy admits, closing the door. She walks with Lydia towards the dressing table and sits primly upon the stool.

“Shall we begin, then?” Missy Darcy says, before looking uncertain, embarrassed by the presumption, perhaps. Lydia wants to laugh at her, but fears it might be taken none too well, Miss Darcy still being as she as she is.

“If you are amenable, Miss Darcy,” she says, instead.

The next half hour or so is occupied by pins, combs, and a great deal of light conversation about nothing in particular. Miss Darcy is unfailingly polite where her brother is abrasive, but does appear to reveal a little more of herself when Lydia manages to make her laugh. Lydia, for her part, finds herself falling back into old habits – bawdy jokes, the changing tides of fashion, and gossip, though she has precious little of the latter considering how isolated she has been. Miss Darcy knows a surprising amount, however, for all her timidity in company – it appears that being reserved and quiet can lend one near invisibility, where one can listen upon anything one chooses.

“No!” Lydia gasps. “Nine months exactly? Surely somebody would have suspected!”

“No!” Miss Darcy laughs. “Least of all Fitzwilliam! And he really ought to have known, considering how well-connected in town he is. But it truly appeared that the only one who had any suspicion about the whole venture upon her return was me.”

“Goodness. And I thought it was exciting when Betsy had to visit her sister in town when she became ill.” Lydia sighs, putting the last couple of pins in place. “There!”

“Will you see her again?”

“Who?” Lydia asks absent-mindedly, giving Miss Darcy’s styled hair a critical going-over with her gaze.

“Betsy. Perhaps you could tell her about Margaret, and thank her for not making the same mistake.”

Lydia gapes in an extremely unladylike manner, for a moment, at Miss Darcy’s quizzical reflection in the mirror.

It had not occurred to her that Miss Darcy might not be aware that Lydia is unwelcome in her childhood home.

“I – I will not be seeing Betsy again, in truth, Miss Darcy,” Lydia mumbles, looking away from Miss Darcy’s reflection.

But Miss Darcy whirls around, blinking her doe-like eyes up at Lydia with such innocence that Lydia feels almost guilty at the sight.

“Why ever not?”

Lydia swallows, attempting to find the words. Even Lizzie had not been able to say it – how can she?

Yet say it she must, as the silence grows, and the perplexed look on Miss Darcy’s face turns to concern.

“I received a letter some weeks ago from Longbourn informing me that … I would not be welcomed home.”

Miss Darcy’s expression clears as she understands, and Lydia fights the terrible urge to run from it.

“Oh. I see.” Her tone is sympathetic. Pitying.

Lydia cannot stand it.

“Oh, Miss Darcy, please, do not – do not pity me. All anybody does these days is _pity_ me,” Lydia cries out. “I am shut up in this grand house all day and all I can think of are my mistakes! My own sister does not know how to speak to me, for all she can think of is how reduced I am. I cannot stand to be pitied by you as well!”

Tears sting her eyes, and Lydia realises she has stepped back as Miss Darcy rises from the stool to follow, a horrified expression on her face. Miss Darcy reaches for her hands, and takes them into her own.

“Oh, Lydia. I never meant to pity you. I only – I understand. I understand what it is like to be shut up inside all day, hidden away for the sake of a scandal, or the threat of one.”

“How can you?” Lydia asks, wretchedly.

Miss Darcy pales a little. “I – I simply do. But, Lydia – I had not realised you did not feel comfortable here. I offer my apologies. As a resident and therefore a host, I should have known.”

“Oh, you could not. I told you I do not wish to be pitied.” Lydia sniffs, somewhat pathetically.

“And so I will not, I swear it,” Miss Darcy pleads. “Only let me reassure you – this is your home now. I would not have you feel unwelcome.”

“I do not feel unwelcome. Not with you,” Lydia admits, blushing. “But your brother – he rescued me. He knows my disgrace, knows where I came from. I cannot help but feel that … he must hate me for it. For polluting his home with scandal and gossip and shame.”

Miss Darcy’s countenance suddenly transforms into what can only be described as a truly determined look.

“Lydia, I can I promise you with great surety that my brother does not think of your abandonment as a disgrace to him, to our family. He is not the sort of man to hate a young woman for her mistakes, or the mistakes of her husband. He is a good man. And he would welcome you in our home. I swear it.”

Lydia does not know how to respond to that. For once, Miss Darcy takes the reins of the conversation, squeezing her hands one more time before pulling her gently back towards the dressing table.

“I suppose I shall make up for it by influencing your keen sense of fashion with all the vagaries of London, then,” Lydia says, with a watery smile.

“I am afraid I must insist on it,” Miss Darcy says, a small smile playing about her mouth, before looking down again, having remembered her modesty. Lydia cannot help but feel a small rush of affection for her newfound friend.

“Well then. You had better turn back to the mirror. It is all done, and I will not have you been sitting patiently with nothing as a result to admire.”

As Miss Darcy turns to the mirror, hesitantly raising her gaze to her reflection, Lydia firmly decides that the rest of the night will be spent in contemplation of no more complex subjects than the curls of her subject. She cannot think of Pemberly as home, but – nor can she ignore the friend she has found in Miss Georgiana Darcy.

 

~

 

With the revelation of Lydia’s secret suffering, Georgiana resolves that she must do something about it as soon as possible.

It is true that she had been aware already that Lydia cannot have been entirely cheerful these past weeks, being as she is, an abandoned wife in an unfamiliar place. But in all her worry over whether Lydia knew of her own connection to Mr. Wickham, Georgiana has forgotten the Christian value of love. To welcome the stranger, and feel their sorrow as one’s own. In short: to provide a home rather than a safe but brief sanctuary.

And it is this virtue that she carries in her heart when she realises she must speak to her brother, and put things to right.

She interrupts him during his daily letter-writing. He is alone at this time, but always takes tea with Elizabeth before beginning, so he will almost certainly be in a good mood, especially if the letter-writing has only recently begun. The look of mild surprise on his face at seeing her confirms that this is a good choice. There is no trace of irritability from the second his gaze rises from his papers – though admittedly, it is rare for him to show any kind of annoyance around her.

“I wish to speak to you on an important matter, brother,” Georgiana announces.

“By all means,” he says, a small frown of concern appearing in his forehead. “Are you well?”

“Perfectly,” she replies, sitting down before his desk. “But do you know who is not?”

“No. I pray you will tell me.”

“Miss Lydia,” Georgiana says, getting straight to the point.

Fitzwilliam sets down his pen. “Ah,” he says, uncomfortably.

“Yes, ‘ah,’” Georgiana says, raising an eyebrow. “We have become rather good friends, of late.”

“Have you? When?”

“We have had many interesting discussions. She is a lively and engaging young woman,” Georgiana says, in a proper tone. “We speak on ladies’ matters.”

“I see,” Fitzwilliam says, still projecting an aura of distinct awkwardness. “And you believe she is unwell?”

“I believe she is unhappy.”

“Georgiana, surely you cannot expect her to be overjoyed at her current circumstances.” Her brother’s expression displays gentle concern, but Georgiana feels only exasperation.

“Of course I do not! But it is more than a general feeling of melancholy, brother, she is unhappy _here_. At Pemberly.”

“Here?” Now Fitzwilliam’s face does display shock. “Has she confided in you on this matter?”

“Yes. She is unhappy for many reasons, but you have the power to reassure her against this one,” Georgiana says honestly. “And _only_ you.”

“I?”

“Who else can reassure her she is truly welcome here? I tried to do so, but, though this is my home, it is not under my name, and therefore not my place. Elizabeth cannot. For all that she loves Lydia, Lydia will always feel it an _obligation_ on Elizabeth’s part. No matter how I argued, she considered it an obligation upon you as well, one which you regret. She cannot see why you would keep her here unless under duress – unless Elizabeth begged you to do it.”

Fitzwilliam sits back, a look of comprehension dawning. He laces his fingers together thoughtfully, pausing before responding. “You wish for me to reassure her that our home is open to her. That she ought to consider it as her own.”

“Yes.” Georgiana’s heart flutters anxiously.

“And you believe that she _should_ consider it her home.”

Georgiana frowns. “Of course I do. She has already revealed to me that her parents will not accept her presence at Longbourn. Where else could she go? She is Elizabeth’s sister. Obligation may require her to be cared for but it is love, and _compassion_ , which should motivate such care – no matter her circumstances. I know … I know that you would do so for me. That you almost _had_ to do so, for me.”

Fitzwilliam sits forward, reaching out a hand to reassure her, but Georgiana gently takes her hand back instead. “Please, Fitzwilliam. Make her understand that she is welcome here. That she always will be.”

He takes another moment to consider her pleading face, and Georgiana hopes that it does not reveal too much. She may feel passionately about this subject, and sure of the rightness of her cause, but for some reason, the thought of her concern for Lydia being so obvious to her brother is embarrassing to consider.

“Very well,” Fitzwilliam sighs, eventually. “If you truly speak for her as a friend, then I can hardly fault your concern for her wellbeing. I will … speak with her. Soon.”

Georgiana feels a wave of relief washing over her, turning her lips upwards as she smiles. “Thank you. Truly, I would not ask if I were not sure that you were more than equal to the task.”

“We shall have to hope so,” Fitzwilliam replies, darkly. “As I recall, my first knowing her three years ago resulted not only in _her_ dislike for me, but her entire family’s.”

“Including Elizabeth. Yes. She has told me that story,” Georgia replies, hardly able to help her cheek.

Fitzwilliam smiles grimly at her, and Georgiana takes her cue to leave the room.

 

~

 

Lydia does not know who she expects to enter the parlour and interrupt her at her half-hearted sewing, but it is not Mr. Darcy.

She nearly stabs herself with the needle, in truth, to see him standing so uncomfortably before her. He nods, stiffly, before sitting across from her, flexing his hands uncomfortably.

“… Miss … Lydia,” he says, in greeting.

“… Mr Darcy,” she replies, attempting to disguise the expression of complete shock that is threatening to overtake her face.

He clears his throat, and shifts, attempting to find some way of sitting which is, she assumes, not disagreeable. That is unlikely. Though he has rescued her, Lydia doubts that Mr. Darcy is a man who ever feels anything but disdain and haughtiness.

“I wished … to speak with you, regarding your stay at Pemberly.”

Lydia’s heart drops, and she finds herself scarcely able to breathe for a moment. It has come to this – she will be fostered off amongst some distant relatives, then, or simply thrown out altogether. She might have expected it to happen sooner.

“I see,” she says, quietly. Her voice does not tremble, to her pride, but she finds herself staring at her sewing, seeing nothing.

“I wish to make it clear to you that –” He clears his throat once more. “– that Pemberly is … your home.”

Lydia’s eyes shoot up, staring wondrously at Mr. Darcy. If he had entered the room and thrown himself upon the ground, kicking and screaming, he could not have shocked Lydia more.

“I know that you cannot be expected to be happy, under the circumstances. We are all aware that your husband’s actions are a terrible blow to you. Nevertheless, I do not wish you to feel that we – that is to say, Mrs. Darcy and I – do not want you here.” Mr Darcy here pauses, looking down at the floor, before composing himself and continuing. “Whatever your family may think of me, I am not cruel. I do not believe that what happened to you is your fault.”

“I do not think you are cruel, Mr. Darcy,” Lydia says, suddenly. Admittedly, she had thought him rude, and abrasive. But not cruel. A cruel man would not have come to London and given her safe haven.

Mr. Darcy gives a grim sort of smile at that, more a thinning of the lips than an expression of any joy. “I cannot say for sure that I am not, considering. I knew Mr. Wickham for a villain when I arranged his marriage to you, and I did so without thought for what might happen to you afterwards. I only considered that the scandal that might hurt – might hurt Mrs. Darcy, if you did not marry. That was selfish, in its own way – and so perhaps cruel, too.”

Lydia swallows, carefully setting down the sewing implements she has begun to clutch onto rather too tightly.

“I was ungrateful, at the time, for intervention at all. I will admit, there have been times where I wished I had not been married to him. But if I had not … You were right, to arrange it. I could not see at the time how poorly it would reflect upon my family, to run away with such a man. I was naïve to the danger I placed them, and myself, in. Perhaps it is just that my selfishness was punished with such a husband.”

“No child of fifteen deserves to suffer from such a man,” Mr. Darcy says softly.

For the first time, Lydia begins to see what her sister sees in the man she has chosen for a husband. It is comforting, where it could be cause for envy – though Lydia wishes she could have foreseen as well in her choice of husband as her sister clearly has, Mr. Darcy is a man bound to her family and herself who will not see her abandoned. A man, indeed, who would not blame her for youthful mistakes where she shares more than a little blame.

A lump rises in her throat.

“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she says, as clearly as she is able, “for saying so.”

“You are most welcome,” he replies, rather sadly. “But I would rather you believe it.”

“Someday I may. For now I am simply grateful to call Pemberly my home. That is something which I cannot be more happy to know.”

Mr. Darcy smiles properly at that, and Lydia does too. The conversation tapers off and it is not long before he leaves again, as awkwardly as he had entered.

But something changes in Lydia, that day. Perhaps it is the knowledge that Mr. Darcy is not quite the snobbish man she had assumed. More likely, it is the knowledge that he is anything but – a man of honour, who dearly loves his wife, his sister, his daughter, and accepts even Lydia as a member of his household. She can have no doubt now that Pemberly will remain her home.

That night, she knocks upon Miss Darcy’s door with a renewed vigour in her motions.

“You seem cheerful this evening,” Miss Darcy says, with a smile.

“Your brother spoke with me today,” Lydia admits. “He had much to say on the subject of Pemberly and my stay here.”

“Oh?” Miss Darcy’s cheeks turn a faint pink, and Lydia’s suspicions are confirmed.

“He was very kind, Miss Darcy. I must thank you.”

“Oh no – I did try to very hard to ensure he would be subtle,” Miss Darcy says, in a pained tone. “I assure you, he said nothing which he did not mean. He is not good at speaking to those he does not know well – it is the only reason he said nothing earlier.”

Lydia laughs, freely. “It is all well with me, Miss Darcy. I believe you. And I believe him, too.”

Miss Darcy’s mouth turns to smiling. “Well – good. I should hope so. I do wish to be your friend.”

“Then friends we shall be. You shall not be able to escape my affection, I am afraid,” Lydia says, in a serious voice.

Miss Darcy laughs, a merry sound that does nothing but add to Lydia’s happy mood. “If we are to be friends, may I make a request?”

“Of course,” Lydia says, curious.

“Call me Georgiana,” Miss Darcy says earnestly. “It seems unfair that I should call you by your Christian name, but you cannot do the same.”

“… It appears that I am to be surprised by two Darcys today,” Lydia murmurs, feeling flustered. She cannot fathom why this unremarkable intimacy between friends should make her feel so, yet it does nonetheless.

“Please,” Miss Darcy presses. “I insist.”

“Very well, then … Georgiana,” Lydia says, feeling strangely daring. “And how shall we continue your education tonight?”

“I look to you for guidance, Lydia,” Georgiana replies, smiling widely.

The night is spent in switched positions: Georgiana attempting to style Lydia’s hair as Lydia had done the previous night, a brave but unfortunately hopeless task which will require much more time spent together over future nights, learning. Lydia cannot find it in herself to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha. I remember when I thought this would be 5,000 words, tops. Silly me. Let me know what you think!! I'm aware there will be anachronisms here and there, as I don't have as much time to research as I would like, so do go easy on me, lol.


	5. Chapter 5

Time passes at Pemberly, and before Lydia knows it, several months have passed.

In those months, she feels many things, but none as terrible as that first night after her arrival – the crushing sense of loneliness and self-hatred that had prevented her from sleeping. Now, every night she spends at least half an hour gossiping with Georgiana and styling their hair in all sorts of ridiculous and delightful ways, before scurrying back to her own bed for proper rest. As it happens, though, she and Georgiana have taken to spending most of the day together – something Lydia is pleased to do, abandoning mindless sewing and boring books to gather dust as she speaks the whole day away with her friend.

Of course, she does not spend the entire day prattling on. Often, she listens to Georgiana – not only Georgiana’s thoughts, but her playing.

As it turns out, Georgiana is unbearably talented at the pianoforte, and indeed, most music that she puts her mind to. On one memorable occasion, Lydia even persuades Georgiana to sing. Though her voice is tremulous and halting, there are signs of real sweetness beneath it – a talent that could be cultivated, if only Georgiana would have the confidence to attempt it. Lydia ensures that her opinion is known on the matter.

“Truly, Georgiana, I believe that with a little practise you could rival anyone in – in – in the whole of the county!”

“Oh, Lydia, please,” Georgiana replies, setting her hands down from the piano in her lap. “Do not be ridiculous.”

“I have never once professed any kind of ridiculousness, as you well know,” Lydia sniffs, before dissolving into giggles. Georgiana, for her part, turns rather pink, before indulging in a laughing fit of her own.

The sound of their laughter must draw attention, for in the next moment, Elizabeth enters the room, looking both befuddled and amused.

“My goodness,” she remarks. “For a moment I thought several birds had somehow found their way inside. I take it that you are both responsible for the racket?”

Georgiana looks horrified at the thought of displeasing Elizabeth, but Lydia has never had time for scolding. Besides which, she can see the smile hidden in the corner of her sister’s mouth, and hear the teasing tone to her voice.

“It is hardly our fault if Pemberly walls are thin and there is merriment to be had,” Lydia sighs, sitting back against the couch and rolling her eyes.

“I do hope we did not disturb you,” Georgiana hurries to add.

“Nonsense. It is good to hear you both laughing.”

Elizabeth makes her way over to sit beside her sister, sitting with much more grace than Lydia, who lies against the backing with her head thrown backwards.

“I must make a confession,” Elizabeth says, looking mischievous. “This is hardly the first time I have overheard you practising, Georgiana. It makes the whole house feel livelier – you can hardly blame me.”

“Oh, no! But it is only practise – it cannot be any good, surely.”

Lydia sits up and looks pointedly at Georgiana. “Now, don’t be ridiculous. You are more than accomplished in the art of music. How many times must I tell you before you let your modesty be?”

“She is being truthful,” Elizabeth interjects. “And in any case – nothing could be worse than Mary’s playing all the livelong day.”

“That is true,” Lydia says, absent-mindedly. “I shall not miss that particular aspect of Longbourn.”

The silence in the room at the mention of Longbourn is deafening, and it takes Lydia a moment to realise that it is the first time she has spoken of her home in many months. She opens her mouth to change the subject, feeling somewhat panicked as both Georgiana and Elizabeth’s careful gazes do not abate, but to her surprise, Elizabeth speaks.

“Indeed. We have both been saved from long dirges at the breakfast table.”

Lydia giggles at that, set off once more, and glad to be so, for in another first, she finds herself able to laugh at memories of home. Georgiana shakes her head, bemused, but smiling, at their antics. And so the afternoon passes, with Georgiana finally being persuaded into playing for them, and more than a little laughter purely for the sake of joy.

 

~

 

Something is off about Georgiana tonight – something in her manner, or expression, which conveys some nervousness Lydia cannot understand the reason for. She pauses, while brushing Georgiana’s hair out, the evening nearly over.

“You seem pensive tonight,” she says, softly. Lydia has gotten better at approaching sensitive subjects with delicacy since the delicate age of fifteen, but she still believes in getting straight to the point.

“I was only thinking of this afternoon,” Georgiana admits, tucking a curl behind her ear.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. You and Elizabeth have a great deal of … sisterly affection.”

Lydia snorts. “Oh, we may get along nowadays, but it was not always so. We quarrelled daily before our marriages.”

“Really?” Georgiana sounds surprised.

“You did not know me before I met my husband,” Lydia says, uncomfortably honest. But she is feeling bold, after having broached the topic of home earlier in the day, and she does not want to back down again. “You cannot know what a terror I was to my sisters. And my parents too, come to think of it.”

“Surely not.”

“It is the truth! But since I have come to live here, Lizzie and I are more affectionate with one another. You have the right of it.”

“That is what I mean. I have never had such a relationship. My brother is good to me, of course, and I love him dearly – but he has practically raised me as a father ought, and I have never had any female friends of an age with me to act as sisters.”

Lydia hums, frowning as she begins to braid Georgiana’s hair back. “That sounds lonely.”

“It has been. At times. There have been many nights I longed for a female companion with which to … to convene, and gossip, and sleep beside,” Georgiana ducks her head, pulling a little at the braid in Lydia’s hands with the movement.

“Sleep beside?” Lydia wrinkles her nose. To her memory, sleeping beside Kitty had only ever meant great deal of kicking throughout the night.

Georgiana is still staring with great intensity at the floor, biting her lip.

“Well – yes. It was … a childish fantasy of mine. To have such a companion.”

“I do not believe in childish fantasies,” Lydia comments, tying off Georgiana’s braid. “Only dreams not yet realised, which shall soon become so, with determination.”

“Perhaps,” Georgiana sighs, pulling her braid around to inspect. Her eyes remain lowered, and Lydia smiles, tapping her on the shoulder.

“I am trying to imply that I can fulfil this particular fantasy, my dear Georgiana,” she states, her hand still on Georgiana’s shoulder.

Georgiana’s eyes widen. “Oh – I didn’t mean to imply –”

“I am sure you did not, nevertheless, I am not known to turn down invitations. I am afraid you will have to suffer through my kicking and tossing and turning all night.”

“Are – are you sure?” Georgiana’s mild stutter only comes out when she is truly nervous, so Lydia places her a second hand on Georgiana’s other shoulder.

“ _Yes_ ,” she reiterates. “Besides, I am sure it will keep us both much warmer than we would be otherwise.”

“Very well then.”

As they are finished for the night, the two of them both immediately head towards Georgiana’s bed on the other side of the room, Lydia with all the bravado she is famed for, and Georgiana with all the timidity of a mouse. Lydia waits for Georgiana to pull back the sheets first, with some amusement, since Georgiana is clearly hesitant.

But Georgiana slips between the sheets without another word, so Lydia follows her without comment. They curl up on their sides, facing each other. Lydia does her best to smile, and reassure Georgiana, who is lying as stiff as a board.

“One of us ought to have some piece of gossip to discuss,” Lydia says. “Preferably about a militia man – then the other can advise how best to flirt with him.”

“Is that what you did with your sisters?”

“Oh, we didn’t discuss anything else! Well. Jane and Lizzie may have. And Mary didn’t care for idle gossip at all. But Kitty and I were _well_ -practised at it.”

Georgiana’s shoulders are not relaxing, and Lydia attempts to continue the conversation without letting her concern show.

“Come now. We can discuss anything you like!”

“There is – someone who I am fond of,” Georgiana blurts out suddenly.

Lydia’s stomach does a funny sort of swooping motion.

“Oh?”

Georgiana is beet-red, but nods. She says no more.

Lydia huffs. “Well, you cannot leave it at that! You must tell me about him!”

“What should I say?” Georgiana looks mortified, her gaze fluttering all about the room in an attempt to avoid Lydia’s eyes.

“It is generally considered polite to tell your bed-partner the name of your young man, but as you are so shy, I will not insist upon it. Perhaps – you could give me clues, and I could try to guess. Though who your eye has landed on in Pemberly is beyond me, for I see little prospect for romance.”

“Brown.”

“Pardon?”

“His hair is a light brown,” Georgiana whispers.

Lydia smiles widely, excited at the prospect of the game.

“Brown! I must say, that’s not very dashing at all. But perhaps he has other qualities to make up for it?”

“But I do so love his hair,” Georgiana frowns.

“Oh, I did not mean to insult your taste – only comment on the simplicity of his looks. But go on, go on!”

Georgiana pauses to think, biting her lip a moment, before turning her eyes towards Lydia’s.

“He has blue eyes. A deep blue, like the night sky.”

Lydia’s heart once more makes some fluttering motion she does not understand, but she is resolved to ignore it.

“Now that is much better. To be lost in the eyes of one’s lover is frightfully romantic.”

“He is not my lover!” Georgiana looks scandalised, and shockingly upset at the suggestion. “And he would never be. I know it.”

“I do not suggest that he is! But you are very wrong if you think it impossible for you to gain a beau. I dare any man who meets you not to fall in love with you instantly,” Lydia says, certain of the truth in her words.

After all, Georgiana is not only rich, which Lydia has discovered through the worst of circumstances is the main consideration for many men. Georgiana is luckily beautiful, too. Her delicate features and her willowy figure make everything she does shine. And that is not even mentioning her eyes, which Lydia is beginning to notice are wide open in surprise.

“Do you really think so?” Georgiana whispers.

“Of course I do,” Lydia says. “Georgiana Darcy, you have everything to recommend yourself. You are beautiful, and gentle, and you do not say silly things like I do – your only fault is shyness, and even that is a gift in your favour, in its own way. Gentlemen adore modest ladies. It was the one thing I could never do right in attracting them.”

“Oh, but you speak with such confidence, Lydia. I wish I could speak half so well as you do nowadays,” Georgiana sighs. Her knees curl up under the blankets, resting against Lydia’s own.

“Confidence is not a trait that has served me well,” Lydia replies, cringing a little in memory of her younger self.

“But if I were more confident, I would know how to flirt with a beau. Or – not flirt, perhaps, that sounds rather forward. How to … attract. How to – to – be kissed, even.”

“How to be kissed?” Lydia’s heart pounds.

Georgiana nods, looking at Lydia with a great deal more forwardness now.

“Yes. I remember – many years ago, I saw a girl kissing one of the boys from town. I didn’t mean to look, but – well, it was awful. She looked terribly uncomfortable. His – his tongue was … all over her face. I don’t think I would like to be kissed like that. But I have no idea how to prevent it.”

“Oh, well that’s frightfully easy. Only kiss men who have kissed before,” Lydia laughs, trying to ignore how inflamed her cheeks feel at the discussion. Technically, she is still a married woman – there is no reason for her to feel so flustered at such a discussion, and with a lady less experience at that. “Only gentlemen who are inexperienced would kiss like that. Or ladies, for that matter.”

“Oh dear,” Georgiana says, looking more worried than ever. “Then I shall be as terrible at kissing as him.”

“I am sure you shall not! Perhaps, if –” But here Lydia stops, finding herself suddenly tongue-tied at the suggestion that has entered her head.

“What?” Georgiana whispers.

Lydia blinks several times looking anywhere but at her bed-partner, shaking her head imperceptibly at her own audacity. “Ah, I was only about to suggest … I could assist you.”

“Assist …?” Georgiana’s quiet voice trails off, her eyes searching Lydia’s own.

“In the art of kissing.”

“Oh,” Georgiana says, breathing out. “How – how would you provide such assistance?”

 “I could – if you were to just lie back, like this –”

Lydia nudges at Georgiana’s shoulder, gently laying her down on her back. Leaning over her, Lydia has no choice but to look into Georgiana’s eyes – they are nearly black in the darkness of the room, and shadowed by her long eyelashes. Lydia rests a hand against Georgiana’s shoulder to balance herself, leaning most of her weight against her right arm on the other side of Georgiana’s torso. She feels Georgiana’s hand come up to rest against the back of her arm, ghost-like in its gentleness. For a moment, the two of them simply breathe, as they hold each other’s gaze, resting in each other’s arms.

“When – when a man kisses you, he will likely hold you thusly,” Lydia stutters out. “And if he is tall, he will lean over you, as I am.”

“And then?” Georgiana will not stop looking at her. Lydia must resist the urge to close her eyes.

“Well – he will probably tilt his head, like this,” Lydia says, changing the angle of her neck and leaning in closer to Georgiana in the process.

“And – and then?” Georgiana sounds somewhat breathless, and against Lydia’s arm, her hand tightens, ever so slightly.

Perhaps it is that tiny change that causes Lydia to pull back, heart thundering in her ears as she realises what has nearly occurred.

“And then … he will kiss you, of course,” Lydia mumbles, feeling foolish. She draws back, careful not to brush her hand over Georgiana’s breast, and lies on her back, staring at the ceiling. She does not know how to fill the silence.

“I see,” Georgiana says, quietly. Lydia hears her turn over, away from Lydia’s field of vision. “Thank you for demonstrating. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” Lydia whispers back, unsure of how to get rid of the horrible feeling that she has somehow made a terrible mistake. Her heart slows, leaving the sluggish feeling of regret all over her body, a feeling which causes her to imagine sinking into the covers like water.

Georgiana does not say another word for the rest of the night, but Lydia cannot sense her sleeping. She lies stiffly, breathing slowly, but not in relaxed enough a pace for sleep, and it takes many hours before Lydia is able to find any rest herself.

 

~

 

When morning comes, Georgiana awakens abruptly.

It takes her a moment to recall the previous night’s activities, and it is all she can do not to pull a pillow onto her face and groan aloud at the memory of them. What was she thinking? To ask Lydia to – to kiss her, as if Lydia had any interest in such a thing. Lydia is a married woman – married to a rake, perhaps, but married nonetheless. She cannot have any interest in Georgiana’s juvenile questions, her … unusual desires.

And desires they are, despite the many weeks Georgiana has spent pretending they are not so. It is all she can do not to pull Lydia closer every night as they talk and spend so much time touching one another’s hair, gently scraping nails against scalps, reaching around to pull in stray tendrils from each other’s faces. It has been torturous, having Lydia so close, yet no more so than any close friends may be.

Georgiana knows that such desires are perhaps uncommon. She cannot recall any other ladies of her acquaintance who have demonstrated such sensibilities. But then, Georgiana has often felt out of sorts amongst ladies her own age. It is a flaw that Wickham took advantage of, all those years ago – her isolation, her confusion over the obsession amongst her peers regarding the attentions of young gentlemen. With a gentleman all her own on whom to focus, it had not been difficult to convince herself she was in love – his attentions being as steady as they were.

But in truth, whatever feeling Georgiana had for Mr. Wickham pales in comparison to her devotion to Lydia. Her feelings for Lydia are not like those of friend- or kin-ship, she knows. She cannot imagine wanting to kiss anyone else, or to sing and play for anyone else’s approval, as she does for Lydia. Lydia laughs easily, these days, and is content to talk every day away with Georgiana, who is happy to listen.

Yet Lydia remains unaware of Georgiana’s relationship to Mr. Wickham, and that is a lie of omission which Georgiana continues to feel guilt over. To befriend the wife of a man who once nearly wedded her is surely a strange set of circumstances, never mind that he abandoned Lydia too.

For all this thinking of Lydia, however, Georgiana is surprised to realise that the lady in question is still in her bed. She can sense that Lydia has awoken – her breathing has quickened, and she is readjusting herself, sitting up and moving away from Georgiana.

Georgiana is seized by the urge to stop her, and speaks without thinking.

“He tried to marry me,” she discloses, curled up warmly against the cold air of the morning, already wishing she could take the words back.

“I – what?” Lydia sounds completely baffled.

“Mr. Wickham. When I was fifteen, he tried to marry me, for my fortune. My brother stopped him.” Georgiana squeezes her eyes shut, still facing away from Lydia, afraid to see the anger that Lydia must surely feel against Georgiana for keeping it a secret so long.

But Lydia shifts closer, slowly, as if she too is afraid.

“How did it happen?”

Georgiana feels tears begin to prick at her eyes. “He – he was kind to me. I convinced myself that I loved him, though I know now I did not. The day before we were to elope, my brother came to see me, and I told him the truth. I never saw Wickham again. My brother ensured it.”

For a long moment, there is silence in the room. Outside, a songbird welcomes the morning, and Georgiana trembles, trying to hold back her tears.

“Georgiana, please look at me.”

Georgiana rolls over, dreading the reveal of what must be Lydia’s fury with her. She keeps her eyes shut until the last moment, certain that nothing good can come of her confession.

But when she opens her eyes, Lydia only looks sad. Her eyes betray no anger, only a deep pain, one that Georgiana knows, instinctively, Lydia must carry with her.

“I am sorry,” Lydia says, sorrowfully. “I had thought – had hoped, at least, that I was the only one to come to harm. That made it easier; to think of myself as his lone victim, or at least – to think I was the one person who could have driven him to such cruelty.”

“You could not drive anyone to cruelty, Lydia,” Georgia interrupts. “Not you. His cruelty was his alone.”

“I can see that, now,” Lydia says, smiling without any humour. “But I wish it were not so. The stupidity of marrying him seems even more foolish, now that I am older. Everyone could see his true character but me. No wonder your brother strove so hard to ensure he would remain with me. Even if it was all for naught, I must say the attempt was admirable.”

“My brother explained it all to me before you arrived,” Georgiana admits. “I did not mean to keep it from you – to keep anything from you. But I am so ashamed of what I nearly did.”

“You do not need to be ashamed!” Alarm colours Lydia’s tone. “Georgiana, lord. I married him. I made the exact mistake you have been so fortunate as to avoid. You cannot think I would judge you for it.”

“I – I suppose not,” Georgiana admits, understanding dawning. She is not alone in her mistake, and the woman who made it too now lies beside her, understanding. They understand one another.

“Thank you,” Lydia says, suddenly, “For telling me the truth. You are – you are a true friend.”

And then she is leaning in towards Georgiana, smiling, as radiant as an angel in the light of the dawn.

Georgiana does not think. She is too happy to be where she is, beside the person she has come to love best in the world, and too relieved not to have lost her –

She presses her lips against Lydia’s, and for a moment, the whole world is still, unmarred by shame or loneliness, existing in pure contentment. It is the softest kind of joy, and it shines.

Lydia pulls back, mouth open in surprise.

Georgiana stares, wide-eyed, a thousand apologies and excuses on her tongue – but nothing will come out.

It seems that Lydia cannot think of anything to say either, for in the next moment, she scrambles out of bed, scurrying away without another word. The door closes sharply behind her, the noise of it causing Georgiana to startle, breaking her reverie.

For a moment, she raises her hand to her lips, disbelieving. She had kissed Lydia. She had _kissed_ her, and for those brief few seconds, all her doubts and all her shyness had left.

And then Lydia had run away.

Georgiana stares at the closed door, feeling the warmth of Lydia’s place on the bed underneath her fingertips. And the tears which have been threatening since her first mention of Wickham finally begin to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Shoutout to my gf for helping edit, love being gay while writing gay shit.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter the historical cameo! Notes on her appearance at the end.

It is not that Lydia intends to run away, but things get quite out of hand rather quickly after she leaves Georgiana’s room.

She flies back to her own room with her heart pounding in her ears, feeling a thousand feelings at once, none of which make any sense to her. Georgiana had kissed her, directly on the mouth, as if – as if Lydia was a _beau_. As if Georgiana loved her, desired her in the way that Lydia is only accustomed to men wanting her.

But that is not the worst of it, as confusing as it may be. The worst of it is that Lydia had liked it – more than liked it. It had been the kind of kiss she hadn’t had since the early days of her elopement, when Wickham still professed some fondness for her, some attraction, at least. It had been the kind of kiss that, coming from a man, should have followed or even perhaps preceded a proposal. Lydia does not know what that sort of kiss must mean coming from a female friend.

She dresses quickly, desperately needing something to do with her hands, to stop herself from bursting into tears or laughter or – she knows not what. Once dressed, however, she is utterly bereft of ideas about what to do – she cannot speak to anyone about what has happened, not without betraying Georgiana’s privacy, in her own home, no less. Out of the house she must go, then, and walk – the way she used to walk to Meryton. Lydia has not explored the grounds and surrounding countryside at Pemberly in all the months she has been there, having first been too depressed to leave the house, and later, being obligated to stay away from society, to avoid tainting the Darcy name with scandal. Still, it cannot be difficult to find her way to the nearest town – she had once been fond of walking, once, almost as fond as Lizzie.

Thus, Lydia finds herself drenched with absolutely freezing rain, blinking water out of her eyes as she stumbles up a small hill in the midst of empty, grassy fields, under a darkening sky that evening, hopelessly lost.

The rain had come on suddenly about an hour before, but Lydia had been lost long before then, having taken several turns away from the main road, and being completely unfamiliar with the area. The woods and fields had only grown more wild the further on she walked, and continue to mask any signs of human activity and life from her. Climbing to the top of the small hill a few minutes walk away from the road had seemed like an excellent plan at the time, but now Lydia finds herself breathing heavily, exhaustion weighing on her shoulders with all the hours she has walked.

And yet, despite the dire circumstances – unsure as she is about where to get shelter, and with a vague concern for those awaiting her at Pemberly – she still can think of nothing but Georgiana. Georgiana’s lips, pressed against her own. Georgiana’s body warming the bed, underneath her as Lydia had leaned over in preparation for a kiss she had shied away from at the last moment. As the chilling mud seeps through her boots, Lydia fights the urge to simply sit down and weep, a hysterical sob working its way up through her throat despite her best efforts.

She glances up, squinting through the rain and her own tears, seeking any sign of shelter – and is surprised to discover a large house a few fields over, from her vantagepoint at the top of the hill. It looks to be Elizabethan in structure, from what little Lydia knows about these things, but with any luck is occupied, if the well-kept surroundings are anything to go by. She quickly begins stumbling down the hill, making her way towards it with as much haste as she can muster.

Finally, she makes her way to the main entrance, though there is no one in sight. She knocks for a very long time, and shouts for entry, trying to hold back her hysterical fear that she is all alone in the world, and all people have disappeared. Yet eventually, the door does open, to reveal a maid, looking absolutely terrified of the stranger banging on the door in the middle of a rainstorm.

“Excuse me, miss – are you all right?” The young woman inquires, still half-hiding behind the door.

Lydia opens her mouth to respond, but bursts into uncontrollable sobbing instead.

 

~

 

Half an hour later, Lydia is wrapped in a blanket and sitting before a kitchen’s lively fire, taunting her in all its merriment, for she still cannot stop crying. The distress of her marriage and discovering Georgiana’s feelings for her (and her own in return) have welled up inside her and turn to hiccupping sobs, so thick in her throat that she can hardly breathe.

The maid, after attending to her immediate need for warmth, has disappeared. Lydia is not alone for very long, however – in the next moment, a tall woman with a determined set to her shoulders enters the room. Her countenance reveals curiosity, and not a little bewilderment.

“My goodness. You look as if you have seen all sorts of troubles,” she remarks, crossing her arms as she sits in the chair opposite Lydia.

Lydia continues sobbing.

“I take it you are not a vagrant, then, by the look of your clothes.”

Lydia shakes her head, but still does not speak.

“Well. You are lucky that my aunt and uncle are away at present, or you might not have been let in, over concern for our safety. As it is, only my wife and I are home,” the woman says, casually, and Lydia is so surprised, she stops crying altogether.

“Your wife?” Lydia croaks.

The woman nods. “Oh yes. My Marianna and I are as husband and wife, though …” Here, her face darkens. “There are complications in the matter of her marriage to another, unworthy of her.”

Lydia blinks, unable to name the feeling currently stopping her from crying. “Who – who are you?”

“My name is Anne Lister. I am the heiress to Shibden Hall, which you have stumbled upon in your hour of need. May I inquire as to your identity?”

Lydia sniffs, trying to clear her nose. “My name is Lydia Wh– Lydia Bennet. I am currently living at Pemberly – I do not know how far away that is from here – I went walking this morning in a state, and have completely lost my way –”

“I am afraid it is several miles away,” Miss Lister says, frowning. “I do not know how you could have walked so far unless you were in a great deal of distress.”

“I am,” Lydia whispers, her voice trembling. “Oh, I do not know where to begin with it all. My sister must be so worried – I did not tell her I was going out.”

“We shall send word as soon as the weather clears, and you on your way soon after, Miss Bennet, I promise. But you must tell me how you came to be in such a state. I have rung for tea, so we have time.”

“I – I am afraid some parts of my story are rather shocking.”

“They cannot be more shocking than my own,” Miss Lister replies, with a wry smile.

Lydia swallows, reminding herself that this strange woman had admitted, within moments of knowing her, to living with a wife. Perhaps Miss Lister is right.

“I – I suppose I shall begin with my marriage, then …”

The entire, scandalous story comes pouring out of Lydia’s mouth without preamble. How her husband had been a rake, and abandoned her three years into their tumultuous union. How Lydia had come to live at Pemberly, with her sister, her niece, her sister’s husband, and of course, Georgiana. And then, finally, how the truth about Georgiana’s own connection with Mr. Wickham had led to Georgiana’s confession, without words, of some tender feeling for Lydia – that even now, Lydia feels giddy to think of.

At the end of her tale, Miss Lister’s eyebrows are raised, yet her overall countenance reveals only a little surprise, more amusement there. She sighs deeply, before sitting forward.

“I must say, Miss Bennet. It seems fortuitous indeed that you came upon my doorstep.”

“How so?” Lydia asks, unable to account for Miss Lister’s amusement.

“I may be one of the few in the county who can offer you the advice you sorely need upon the subject of your Miss Georgiana Darcy.”

Lydia does not know how to react to this pronouncement.

“It seems to me, Miss Bennet, that you have developed a rather intimate and tender connection with Miss Darcy, have you not?”

Lydia nods, dumbfounded. It is true, her friendship with Miss Darcy has accounted for much of her happiness over the past few months. “But I do not see how our friendship can continue without … changing,” Lydia argues.

“I think it should,” Miss Lister says, grinning. “Indeed, Miss Bennet, I propose that you should take Miss Darcy as your lover.”

“My lover?!” Lydia’s mouth drops open.

“Precisely. Your feelings for her are clearly of the tender, romantic sort. As for her own, I think perhaps the unspoken confession you alluded to may reassure you of her own regard. I see no reason you should not pursue her.”

“But … it is not done, surely?” Lydia twists the blanket between her hands, anxious to understand.

Miss Lister gets a funny sort of smile about her lips at Lydia’s confusion. “I mentioned my wife, earlier, Miss Bennet. She is not the only woman with whom I have been intimately acquainted. It is, perhaps, more common than one might think.”

Lydia gapes, unable to speak. There’s a strange sensation in her chest, a sort of lightness – something she has never felt before. A little like relief, a little like affection, a little like contentment. She closes her mouth and contemplates Miss Lister’s words.

Love between women is not so uncommon, then. Miss Lister is married to a woman, and has loved others of their sex in addition to her marriage. And Lydia … Lydia has had another girl kiss her mouth, and felt her heart leap in response to that gentle touch. Miss Lister’s confidence that Lydia may be like her, and take a female lover, imbues her with an odd sort of pride. Perhaps, if she is careful to love Georgiana with all the passion and gentleness a girl like her deserves, and to allow Georgiana to be warm with her in return, without fear of repudiation or denial …

Lydia looks up, wide-eyed, at Miss Lister.

“I have to return home as soon as possible. I must make it right!”

“And so you shall, Miss Bennet – but you may wish to wait out the rain, first, and then I shall be happy to send you back in our carriage tomorrow morning.”

Lydia stands and races to the nearest window, hopeful that the rain will be easing up – but the sky has only darkened further, the night closing in around the house. Lydia pouts, put out and anxious to return to Georgiana. But, for now, it seems she must wait a little longer to be with the girl she has determined to prove her love to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Anne Lister was a real woman who lived in Yorkshire and wrote a roughly four million word long diary over the course of her life, detailing much about her daily life - including her multiple lesbian love affairs. The woman mentioned in this fic is Marianna Belcombe, considered to be the love of Anne's life and her first wife. However, Marianna was married to a man, and eventually she and Anne broke up over it. Happily, though, Anne married a neighbour named Ann Walker some years later and remained married to her until she died.
> 
> This is a fictional representation of Anne Lister, but I like to think if a young woman had shown up hysterically sobbing on her doorstep about being in gay love, Anne would have given her this advice.
> 
> As for the likelihood of Lydia running into Miss Lister - well, that I took some liberties with. Shibden Hall, where Anne lived, and Chatsworth House, upon which Pemberly was based, are roughly 16 hours walk from each other, according to Google Maps - so it's unlikely Lydia could have walked that far over the course of a day. In addition, I've tried to keep the exact date of this fic a bit mysterious, as some theorise P&P taking place in the late 1790s, others in the mid 1810s, and this fic is set three years after the novel. Anne met Marianna in 1812, and Marianna was married to a man in 1815. Anne continued to live at Shibden Hall and often had Marianna to visit until 1828, when they broke up. So, interpret that as you will!


	7. Chapter 7

For the second time in her life, Lizzie finds herself desperate for news of a runaway Lydia.

It is the second time, too, that Lizzie finds herself unspeakably furious with her little sister, unable to account for her foolishness. Mr. Darcy has already ridden out to look for Lydia as the rain begins to ease, while she remains stuck indoors with Georgiana, pacing the parlour nearest the front of the property in order to keep an eye out the window for any arrivals. The rain is just about stoppered now, the sun peeping out from behind the remaining grey clouds. She glances over at Georgiana, who had paled with fear the second they had all realised that Lydia was still out in the storm.

Mustering what little patience she has left, Lizzie sits beside Georgiana and tries to comfort her.

“I am sure she will be back soon. She likely thought the rain would not come on so fast – it was thoughtlessness, nothing more. You know Mr. Darcy is out looking for her.”

Georgiana’s knuckles are white where she is constantly clutching and releasing her dress, worrying at the fabric with her fingertips.

“I know,” Georgiana whispers.

“Do not be distressed, Georgiana,” Lizzie says, quite hypocritically, considering her own anxiety. “I am quite confident that Lydia will return and have no idea why we were all in such an uproar. It is not your fault.”

“Oh, but it is!” Georgiana bursts into tears, and Lizzie stares, amazed, at the sight of her.

“Of course it is not! Georgiana, you cannot blame yourself for Lydia’s selfish impulses. If I did that, I would have quite lost my mind years ago.”

Lizzie stroke’s Georgiana’s back in an attempt at comfort, as Georgiana covers her face and weeps. Georgian speaks once more, muffled through her hands.

“She was not selfish. I was the selfish one – it is my fault she is gone.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Lizzie begins to feel some particular signs of alarm, her heart nearly stopping at Georgiana’s words.

“I cannot say – I cannot say! I asked too much of her. Too much of our friendship. What will I do if she is not found?”

“Oh, Georgiana, I am sure you did no such thing. Yet even if you did, it would not be your fault that Lydia has run away – it cannot have been.”

Georgiana simply continues to cry, so Lizzie lapses into silence, comforting her as best she can simply with silence. After a time, Lizzie’s ears detect some sound in the distance, and she looks up, craning her neck to see through the window. To her shock, she sees a carriage making its way up to the house – and not one of their own.

She must make some sound of shock and relief, for Georgiana looks up at that moment, and the two of them immediately fly into action, rushing towards the entrance hall to ascertain whether their visitor has any relevant information.

“Lydia?” Lizzie cries out as they approach the house, rushing down the steps to meet them.

The carriage stops, the driver bringing the horses to a halt. The carriage door opens – and out steps Lydia, at least. She is pale, and still a little damp from the rain, her curls sadly bedraggled and ruined.

“I am well, I am well, do not fuss,” Lydia says, sniffing a little and attempting to smile.

“Do not fuss? DO NOT FUSS?!” Lizzie finds herself losing her composure, despite her best efforts. She has never desired to make such a fool of herself as her mother regarding her emotions, but just now, she cannot find it in herself to care.

“I was waylaid by the rain, but found sanctuary with a neighbour. I am well, Lizzie, please do not shout,” Lydia grumbles.

“What else am I to do? Lydia, I was terrified. As was Georgiana! Even now, Mr. Darcy is out looking for you!” Lizzie takes her sister by the shoulders, but Lydia flinches, and Lizzie quickly lets go, feeling a brief flash of guilt.

“Perhaps we should go inside,” Georgiana says, finally unsticking her mouth to speak.

“We should,” Lizzie agrees, touching Lydia a little more gently this time, pulling her in closer to warm her.

“I have some things to say, sister,” Lydia says softly, so that Georgiana, walking stiffly ahead, cannot listen in. “Let me speak with you once I am proper again – or as proper as can be. They will not wait long, not long at all. It is of vital importance!”

“Oh, Lydia,” Lizzie sighs, repressing the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. Why must Lydia always insist upon being dramatic? “If we must.”

“We must,” Lydia confirms, and that is the last thing she says before she is whisked away by servants at Lizzie’s calling to help her warm and change her sodden garments.

About an hour later, Lizzie is called by one of the servants to meet Lydia in her room – an unusual request which immediately raises Lizzie’s suspicions that Lydia has done something wrong, or is more ill than she had first appeared. Still, by this time, Fitzwilliam has returned and been reassured of Lydia’s safety, and has gone off to warm and change his own clothing. Lizzie therefore has nothing better to do than attend to her sister’s whims.

When she opens the door to Lydia’s room, Lydia is sitting at the window, her hair out and still drying in the weak light of the setting sun. Lydia glances up at Lizzie with a nervous look upon her face, and Lizzie feels her irritation with her wayward sister soften a little.

“I daresay you have an explanation for your excursion, then,” Lizzie says, sitting down before her sister and attempting to wear a kind expression.

“I do. But it is – a strange one. I am not sure how you shall react to it,” Lydia admits. “I know that – I have not always acted properly. I have acted rashly, in the past, with no care for how it would reflect on my family. On you.”

Lizzie’s eyes widen. She had not expected an apology of this magnitude. “Lydia, that is in the past. I think we may all safely agree that whatever wrongs you committed, you have learned from them – to your sorrow, I believe.”

Lydia nods, her gaze straying to the sunset. She bites her lip.

“The truth is that I had many reasons for behaving as I did. In the first, I did not fully understand the depths of my actions. I could not comprehend their consequences, and so I have had to suffer them all. But in the second … in the second, I believe I was – I _am_ – tired of the expectations of good society. Good society wanted nothing to do with me when I was abandoned, and good society merely celebrated a marriage that has caused me nothing but grief.”

“I see,” Lizzie says, slowly going over her sister’s words. She cannot find too much fault with them – gossip is indeed a vice, and there are contradictions and hypocrisies everywhere when one chooses to examine them, as Lizzie has herself done many a time after her husband’s first disastrous proposal.

“I ran away today because – oh, no, that won’t do. Let me start later, and then work my way back.” Lydia’s forehead wrinkles as she concentrates. “When I became caught in the rain this morning, I found sanctuary with a woman who lives in Shibden Hall, some miles away. She took me in and gave me everything I might need to get warm again and return home.”

“Shibden Hall – is that not the home of the Lister family?” Lizzie inquires, racking her memory for the surrounding families of the country.

“It is. It was Miss Anne Lister who took me in,” Lydia confirms.

“Indeed!”

Lydia shifts, nervously, smoothing out her gown. “Miss Lister is a rather singular woman, Lizzie. Do you know her?”

“No, not at all,” Lizzie says, surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“I discovered something about Miss Lister that may interest you. She has a wife.”

Lizzie struggles, for a moment, to comprehend what Lydia is telling her. “A – did you say a wife?”

“Yes, precisely.” Lydia shifts again, agitated, now. “She told me that her wife is not the only woman with whom she has – had dalliances.”

“I can scarcely comprehend it,” Lizzie says, reeling. “How – how could such a union take place?”

“It was not a recognised one, from what I was given to understand,” Lydia says, “But for their own hearts alone.”

“Surely such things are surely not common, though,” Lizzie replies. A union between women, as husband and wife. It strikes her as an entirely unique idea.

“She … she gave me reason to believe such things were _not_ so uncommon. Or rather … I gave myself reason to believe it.”

Lydia’s gaze is now steadily on the setting sun, as if she cannot bear to look at Lizzie. A sudden, nagging suspicion lodges in the back of Lizzie’s mind as she comprehends the meaning of Lydia’s words.

“Do you mean to say … that you have … witnessed? Such a union, or such feeling between women?”

Lydia shakes her head, mute.

Lizzie’s gaze does not falter as she attempts to understand.

“Do you mean to say, then, that you have experienced it?”

Lydia turns her gaze back to Lizzie, who is startled to note that Lydia’s eyes are gleaming with unshed tears. She nods, still silent, before the tears begin to slip down her cheeks.

Lizzie longs to comfort her, but must take a moment to consider things.

Very well, Lydia is in love with a woman. In truth, when Lizzie casts her mind back to consider whom it may be, there is only one answer to be found: Georgiana. This too would explain why Georgiana had mentioned asking too much of Lydia – perhaps Lydia’s affection is returned. That poses a complicated situation, and Lizzie does not know how to solve it, for Fitzwilliam must be told, in time.

Yet … her mind lingers on Lydia’s happiness.

When Lydia had first come to Pemberly, she had been morose, out of spirits, and nothing like the cheerfully stupid girl who had left to be married three years prior. Lizzie had been put out of sorts by it, and had not known how best to comfort her. As time passed, she was relieved to see Lydia’s constitution improve, especially after gaining the friendship of Georgiana. One can hardly be seen without the other, and that is no great shame, considering Georgiana’s relative isolation and Lydia’s loneliness.

Then it follows that Georgiana makes Lydia happy. A safe home, far from the one who abandoned her, makes Lydia happy. The acceptance and love of _Lizzie_ , astonishingly, makes Lydia happy.

After having borne the misery of a marriage that she could not have predicted ending so, does not Lydia deserve some happiness?

“Lydia,” Lizzie says, softly. “I am not angry with you.”

“Are you sure?” Lydia says tremulously, sounding like the child Lizzie knew, once.

“Of course. I only want … I only wish for your happiness. However it might be found, even if your methods are, as usual, my dear sister, uncustomary. We are family, and that matters a great deal more to me now that I am older,” Lizzie says, before giving in to the urge to hold her sister close and rub her back in comfort.

As Lydia sobs with all the emotion of a woman who has been prepared for rejection and has found instead acceptance and love, Lizzie cannot help but shed a few tears herself, though she prides herself on being so much less effusive than her family.

 

~

 

Lydia’s trepidation that night when she knocks upon Georgiana’s door is, to understate it, agonisingly terrible.

She waits outside in the hallway, her feet cold and bare upon the floor, the candle flickering against the shadows. For several moments, she worries Georgiana will not answer her. Then she worries that Georgiana _will_. But before she can overthink herself into a frenzy, and lose the courage she had gained earlier in the evening through Lizzie’s support and acceptance, the door opens.

Georgiana stands inside, her face inscrutable. Lydia’s heartbeat quickens, and she struggles to think of what to say. She had thought of so many ways to confess her feelings throughout the tumultuous day, but each proposed conversation flees her mind at the sight of Georgiana.

Without a single word of greeting, Georgiana reaches out, grabs Lydia’s hand, and pulls her inside. Lydia’s eyes widen but she still does not speak, for as soon as the door closes, Georgiana rounds upon her, blazing with fury.

“How could you be so foolish! We were all so worried! We thought you might have died out there in the cold! You could have caught a fever, or – or been stolen away by brigands –”

“Stolen away by brigands?” Lydia repeats, utterly taken aback by Georgiana’s fury.

“I don’t know!” Georgiana cries, her frustration evident. “I know – I know that what happened this morning was my fault, and I own to it, but it was cruel of you to run. We were all convinced that you were in terrible trouble!”

“Your _fault_?”

Georgiana shrinks back a little, wrapping her arms defensively around herself. “You do not feel as I do. I know that.”

“Feel as you do?” Lydia cannot help herself, it seems all she is capable of is repetition anymore.

“Oh, do not be so heartless! You must know that I love you!” Georgiana cries out, sounding anguished.

Lydia opens her mouth, astonished. Some part of her cannot help but note that despite the gender of the speaker, this is exactly the kind of confession of love she had dreamed of as a little girl. She feels faint.

“I – I love you too,” she says, having no ability to make her feelings any clearer than that.

“What?” Georgiana blinks.

“May I kiss you? I have been wanting to kiss you all day, and been prevented from it for some time now.” Lydia can think of little else.

“You love me?” Georgiana’s quiet, stunned voice reminds Lydia that perhaps she ought to be more considerate of Georgiana’s own confusion.

She sets the candle down, and steps closer.

“Yes. I love you. I wish to take you as a lover,” Lydia says, feeling bold. “And to be yours in return, if you will have me. Will you?”

Georgiana’s eyes shift rapidly as she examines Lydia’s face, looking for some sign of truth. Lydia prays that the strength of her feelings is evident. Finally, Georgiana steps closer, still with a look of wonder and disbelief on her face.

“I will,” she whispers. For a moment there is silence, as the two of them both stare at one another. “What do we do now?”

“I believe at this juncture it is customary for us to do this,” Lydia says, before threading her hand through Georgiana’s hair, pulling her in close, and kissing her with all the passion she has heretofore kept hidden.

It takes a moment, but finally, Georgiana kisses back, opening her mouth beneath Lydia’s. Unlike Whickham’s forceful intrusions, the press of her tongue is gentle, warm against Lydia’s bottom lip. Lydia tightens her fist a little in Georgiana’s hair, and Georgiana brushes against her mouth again. A hand comes to rest at Lydia’s waist, a little cool due to the cold air, making her shiver. She pulls back, Georgiana following her mouth until it is clear that Lydia wishes to speak.

“I do not know – that is to say, I have been married, but I have never done such things with a woman before,” Lydia admits, allowing herself the luxury of vulnerability with her lover.

“Neither have I,” Georgiana says, but there is a smile upon her lips, and pink in her cheeks.

“Would you not like to find out together?” Lydia asks, smiling back at her.

Georgiana does not answer, instead pulling Lydia in close once more to kiss her, in their third of what will surely be an immeasurable number of embraces. Lydia keeps smiling beneath Georgiana’s lips, pressing herself ever closer against Georgiana’s body, safe and unreservedly loved for the first time in the longest time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeey, it's finally up! Wooh! Let me know what you thought! Not sure whether to finish it there or include the super tiny epilogue. Hmm!


	8. Chapter 8

Georgiana’s brother comes around to the idea of her romance with Lydia with all the slowness and grace of a man who is beginning to accept that the women in his life will almost always know better than he does.

Georgiana had not known how to tell him at first. Elizabeth had been quick to reassure her, the morning after Lydia’s confession, that she had not yet said a word to her husband, believing it best for Georgiana to approach him herself. Georgiana does not know if that is a relief or not – much as her brother might love her, she believes that he respects Elizabeth’s opinion more in complex matters such as these. Yet if Elizabeth can accept her and Lydia’s love for one another, then perhaps it is possible that she can approach her brother after all – with Lydia at her side.

“Are you sure that you wish for me to be there? I know that … Well, I know that he has made me welcome here, but we are not quite friends,” Lydia says, nervously. She’s been squeezing Georgiana’s hand repeatedly on the walk towards her brother’s office.

“I am sure. I do not wish to be alone in this,” Georgiana says, not quite confidently.

They stop outside his door, and Lydia takes Georgiana’s other hand, facing her.

“You know that whatever he says, I will love you nonetheless?”

Georgiana smiles, for a moment, at least, comforted. “I know.”

She leans in and kisses Lydia quickly, just the once, before turning to the door and knocking.

Together, they enter, hands separated now. Her brother looks up in surprise to see the two of them standing expectantly before him, and invites them to sit with puzzlement in his tone.

“Did you have something to discuss?”

Georgiana glances at Lydia for strength. Lydia nods, encouragingly, and Georgiana gives her a tiny smile.

“I have to tell you something – something that will surprise you but not, I hope, dismay you.”

His eyebrows rise, but he maintains an otherwise neutral expression, probably desperate to conceal his concern from her, as always.

“I see.”

“Yes,” Georgiana says awkwardly. On impulse, she takes Lydia’s hand. “You see, I have, despite all cautions and reasons to do otherwise, fallen in love.”

If her brother’s eyebrows were any higher than they are now, they might be in danger of leaving his face altogether.

“… With whom, may I inquire?” He says, in a strained voice.

“With Lydia.”

Fitzwilliam blinks. He looks at Lydia, and then Georgiana, and then Lydia once more.

“It is true,” Lydia volunteers. “And I love her in return. I would never hurt her.”

“… I see,” he repeats, seeming to struggle to comprehend the situation.

“I know that this must come as a shock,” Georgiana blurts out. “I know that – this is not what you might have expected for me. And I know there will be practical matters to consider, should I never be married to a man, as I do not intend to be. I do not wish to be a burden to you. But I …”

She pauses, swallowing, gathering the courage to speak.

“I will not be parted from Lydia. I love her, as you love your own wife. And if you try to separate us – I would implore you to think of how it might feel to be separated from Elizabeth, before you took such an action.”

Having said her piece, Georgiana lapses into silence, holding on to Lydia’s hand so tightly that it must surely be causing Lydia pain, though she voices no complaints.

“I shall … need time to consider this matter,” he says, and Georgiana nods tightly, before standing quickly, dragging Lydia along with her as they both leave the room. Once safely outside, she bursts into tears, unable to help herself.

“Oh, Lydia, what if I have made a terrible mistake?” Georgiana whispers, as Lydia pulls her in close to comfort her.

“It was not mistake. He had to be told, and besides … He is your brother. He adores you. I cannot see that he would make us part,” Lydia says, a stubborn edge to her voice. “And Lizzie will speak with him, too. He cannot separate us. He would not dare.”

“Perhaps,” Georgiana says, before a fresh wave of tears overcomes her. She can only hope that Lizzie has as much influence as Lydia says, as much as Georgiana has observed in the three years of their marriage.

 

~

 

Lizzie might not fully understand her sister’s relationship, but she understands perfectly well how to function in her own – including when her husband is behaving stubbornly.

“I will not see them separated,” she threatens. He had come to her room that night to speak with her on “an important matter regarding your sister” and she had known immediately of what he had been speaking.

“I do not speak of separation,” he says, uncomfortably. “But I cannot entertain it. That two young girls should … should live together, as man and wife. It confounds me.”

“As it does me!” Lizzie laughs, incredulously. “But we do not need to understand it in such depth. All we need do is see that they are happy. And they _are_ happy with one another, Fitzwilliam, anybody can see it.”

“Could they not be happy as friends?”

“I do not believe so, no,” Lizzie says. “I had considered it. But you must know – they are not the only women to have such notions of relationships between one another.”

Her husband’s eyes widen and she hastens to correct herself.

“That is – I understand your neighbour, Miss Lister, to be in such a relationship – with a wife.”

Fitzwilliam’s expression becomes, if possible, even more uncomfortable. “You have heard that rumour, then.”

“You knew?!”

“I did,” he confirms. “I had thought it only gossip, without truth to it. It seems I was wrong.”

“Well, then. The situation is not unique even to the county,” Lizzie reasons. “And should either of them need advice, they have someone like themselves to turn to.”

“Perhaps,” he admits, grudgingly. He sighs, and sits upon the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with his hands. Lizzie moves closer to him, laying her head upon his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist in a silent plea for caution in the matter.

“I know it is not what you might have imagined for Georgiana,” she murmurs. “It is certainly not what I imagined for Lydia – even after she was abandoned by Wickham. Yet it is the situation we find ourselves in. And, my love, you must admit – it saves you from the difficult duty of securing a husband for Georgiana. You must admit that a man who meets your expectations for her would be hard to find.”

“Do not tease me,” he grumbles.

“Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten how my Fitzwilliam cannot be teased,” she says, smiling against his shoulder.

Silence falls for a few minutes more, as he thinks, considering the matter. Lizzie lets him do it, understanding that such consideration is necessary to the process of decision-making for her husband, much as she would prefer to discuss matters openly.

Finally, he speaks.

“Do you truly believe they make one another happy?” He asks, softly.

“My love,” she says, raising her gaze to his, “I know of only one other couple whose happiness could rival theirs. And that is _us_. Their happiness is the last thing that worries me about the match, and the greatest of all reasons for it to be allowed to exist.”

He smiles, one of those rare gentle things that she has come to treasure. “I suppose, as usual, you are right.”

“I am always right,” Lizzie says, grinning cheekily at him.

He kisses her in lieu of answering such a statement, and the matter is discussed no more as other activities arise to fulfil the night hours.

 

~

 

Georgiana awakens the next morning, Lydia still asleep beside her, to a letter outside her bedroom door.

She recognises her brother’s hand immediately, and picks up the note hastily, bringing it inside and opening it with not a little anxiety. The letter is short, surprisingly, considering his habit of being verbose in his letters where he cannot be in life. Yet she finds herself smiling as she begins to read.

 

_My dearest sister,_

_I will admit that the news of your relationship with Lydia surprised me, yesterday. I did not know how to react to such knowledge, or whether I could condone it, responsible as I am for your upbringing. Having discussed the matter with Mrs. Darcy, however, I am forced to conclude that whatever other complications may arise from your relationship, you and Lydia are happy. Since our parents’ deaths, I have only ever wanted you to be happy. Therefore, I can do naught but support you in this (and, I am sure, many other) endeavours._

_Your brother,_

_Fitzwilliam_.

 

Georgiana clutches the letter tightly in her hand, tears springing to her eyes, before she wipes them away. Slowly, she walks back to the bed, where Lydia is slowly beginning to awaken, her hair a mess and her eyes drooping as they do most mornings.

“’Morning,” Lydia murmurs.

“Good morning,” Georgiana says, cheerfully. “I think I shall sleep a little while longer.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Lydia says, smiling sleepily, before closing her eyes once more.

Georgiana feels a swell of affection for her love in her chest. She slips back beneath the sheets, curling herself around Lydia as gently as she can, and does not stop her mouth from smiling even as she falls back into slumbering once more, knowing that this morning – and all others, for the foreseeable future – will bring happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOO IT'S DONE. Let me know what you thought!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Ride This Feeling by Kate Miller-Heidke, a rather good song I highly recommend.
> 
> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)


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